


Opus 1, No. 1: Con fuoco

by aglassfullofhappiness (mehmehs)



Series: Variations on a Theme (Classical Musician AU verse) [1]
Category: The Old Guard (Movie 2020)
Genre: Alternate Universe - Classical Music, Alternate Universe - College/University, Classical Music, Enemies to Friends, Enemies to Friends to Lovers, Enemies to Lovers, M/M, Musicians, Slow Burn, bitching their way into growth, classical musician au, cryptid nicky vibes, gratuitous arts kid nostalgia, musical training as parallels, pianist nicky, violinist joe
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2021-02-05
Updated: 2021-02-19
Packaged: 2021-03-17 15:28:30
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 3
Words: 19,886
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/29227719
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/mehmehs/pseuds/aglassfullofhappiness
Summary: In which Nicky is a classical pianist who has grown up in conservatories and concert halls, and Joe is a violin prodigy who’s still wondering how the hell he ended up there. Surprisingly, they make an amazing duo. Only problem? Theydetesteach other.
Relationships: Joe | Yusuf Al-Kaysani/Nicky | Nicolò di Genova
Series: Variations on a Theme (Classical Musician AU verse) [1]
Series URL: https://archiveofourown.org/series/2146062
Comments: 240
Kudos: 353





	1. 1st movement

**Author's Note:**

> Me: How can we explore the insanely complicated conflict and growth 1100’s Joe and Nicky go through during their slow-burn, enemies-to-lovers saga through a modern parallel?  
> My brain: CLASSICAL MUSICIAN AU BABY
> 
> This project is an absolute labour of love between [ yon](https://archiveofourown.org/users/chlouais/pseuds/chlouais) and myself. Thank you for every ass o’clock hour you spent going feral over this with me. Also a huge shoutout to the many arts kids (and otherwise) who came out of the woodwork to add their expertise, crazy anecdotes and constant support.
> 
> Special thanks to [dani](https://www.archiveofourown.org/users/DaniMarik) and [yu_gin](https://archiveofourown.org/users/yu_gin/pseuds/yu_gin) for the fresh beta work and for taking me back to school 😂
> 
> Featured repertoire is linked within the fic & will also be in the end notes. Enjoy 🥰
> 
> Update: please see the end notes of the final chapter for a transformative works roundup!

It is 7:08 a.m., Nicky is jetlagged as all hell, and some _arsehole violinist_ is hogging his favourite practice room.

To be fair, Nicky is not actually a Juilliard student. He’s here to perform, to guest lecture, and to catch up with Nile before she actually stabs Andy during pointe class. But still – he’s booked this room and bookings are sacred. Nicky has sat through many loud complaints about Juilliard’s lack of practice room availability, and the memory of it increases his already pounding headache. If he was back at his alma mater, he would have interrupted already, but he doesn’t want to be a dick first thing in the morning, in case the student is having a pre-recital panic.

Secondly, whoever’s in there is very, very good. Nicky’s played with enough professional violinists at this point to pass some judgement, and mystery room-hog violinist is, well. Every instrumentalist in this building is _good_ , of course, but there’s something about this one that has Nicky close to the door, straining to hear past the soundproofing. The tone is too alive for this early in the morning, erring on the side of raw, and Nicky realises belatedly that he’s holding his breath.

Before he can properly articulate the strangeness of it, the music cuts off with a muffled curse. Nicky checks his watch – 7:10am. Fair game. He knocks briefly, pushes the door open, and –

His polite version of _good morning, please leave_ disappears as he takes in the room.

The mystery violinist is hanging – no really, _hanging_ – upside down from the edge of the grand piano. His knees are hooked over the side, curly hair brushing the ground, and he’s playing the violin...upside down. His bow is poised to hit the string again, but he stops when he catches sight of Nicky, frozen at the door. 

They stare at each other for a solid couple of seconds, before the man breaks into an upside-down smile and says, “Hey, sorry, did I lose track of time?”

Nicky finds himself at a loss for words, Italian, English or otherwise. The man carefully sets his violin onto the carpet, and then places his palms on either side and handstands himself off the piano lid, legs curving gracefully until he’s standing upright. He turns with a little flourish, and holds out a hand. “Hi, I’m Joe,” he says, grinning now. “Nice to meet you.”

Nicky realises his mouth is slightly open and snaps it shut. His headache has reached a point he hadn’t realised existed. Something must show on his face because Joe raises an amused eyebrow and retracts his hand, still smiling.

“You…you were on the piano,” Nicky says slowly, voice slightly strangled. “Upside-down.”

“I took my shoes off, don’t worry,” Joe said, pointing to his socked feet, _as if that was Nicky’s primary concern._ “Pretty hard to stay on, not gonna lie.”

“You were _on_ the _piano_ ,” Nicky says again, even slower, and Joe nods, brow furrowing, as if _he_ was the one concerned for Nicky’s mental state and not the other way around. Nicky takes in a deep breath, and Joe raises his hands.

“Sorry,” he says, “I was just trying something out. Let me get out of your hair.”

Nicky watches him pick up his instrument and pack it away. His case is old and battered, rickety looking, and Nicky narrows his eyes at it. Perhaps it made sense that this man would defile a piano that way, if that’s the state he keeps his own instrument in.

The man – Joe, whatever – pauses by the door and scoops up his phone from where it’s propped against the wall. Nicky realises he’d been filming himself, and resists the urge to roll his eyes. He’d wasted ten minutes of his morning practice to let Joe film his antics. _Grande_. Andy always said he was too nice.

“See you around,” Joe says, and he still hasn’t wiped that beaming smile off his face. It hurts Nicky’s jetlagged brain just to look at him. “Have a good practice!”

The door shuts behind him, and Nicky turns to stare at his favourite practice Steinway in the school, still and silent. Joe had left no marks on the lid, but Nicky stares at it anyway, trying to find any damage.

“ _Povero bambino mio_ ,” he says, resisting the urge to claw at his face. “What the _fuck_.”

And that is how they meet.

~*~

Luckily for Nicky, his packed schedule helps him forget about the travesty that was Monday morning. It’s calming to be back in a school, even if it’s on the wrong side of the Atlantic. It has been a long year – well, years, really – of constant travelling and performances, cramming in rehearsals with an ever-changing roster of orchestras, acoustics and pianos. He’s ready to sit down in front of a familiar favourite and just play for several hours, uninterrupted, and be surrounded by people who won’t bat an eye at that. Every conservatory has its own distinct character, for sure, but the understanding between its students remains largely the same. Nicky has always found it to feel like home.

He’s also sorely missed teaching in a space where people respect him, yes, but do not gawk. Several of the first year piano cohort do ask him to autograph their scores after their masterclass on Tuesday, but they’re as shy as he feels and it’s over quickly. The performing arts are full of people like him, Nicky thinks, and they seem to get younger and younger every year.

On Thursday, Nicky’s packing up on stage when he feels the familiar itch of being watched, and turns to find Copley walking out of the wings, smiling.

“Lovely to see you again, Mr Genovese,” he says, and Nicky shakes his proffered hand. “Congratulations on the last concert series, by the way. Brilliant reviews.”

Nicky shrugs. “Not all of them.”

Copley laughs. “Well, no. You can’t conquer them all.”

“I heard you passed on the Provost role,” Nicky says, redirecting the conversation. “Must be a relief.”

Copley nods, his smile fading slightly. “Yes, well,” he says, “after my wife…I didn’t feel I’d do the best job anymore. It’s nice to be focused on the Music Division again.”

 _Probably doesn’t stop you from having fingers in every pie_ , Nicky thinks. Being a division Dean and Director was one thing. The way Copley played his cards – if something was happening, he was there, one way or another.

“Actually, I wanted to discuss the student collaborations with you,” Copley says. “You know how well your performance with Miss Freeman was received.”

“Yes, Nile kept telling me it went viral,” Nicky says, “whatever that means.”

Copley looks like he’s trying not to laugh again. “It means good things, Nicky,” he says. “A lot of positive attention on cross-division collaboration. I heard you’re interested in more group repertoire for your next set of performances?”

“Yes…” Nicky says, trying to figure out how Copley had heard that. “I was thinking of bringing it back to duets –”

The auditorium door bangs open, and a harried looking faculty member appears, hair askew.

“Mr Copley,” she calls, striding down the hall towards them, “where’s a goddamn pianist when I need one? It’s the third time an accompanist has bailed on my class last minute.”

There’s a comical pause where Copley looks at her, and then slides his eyes over to Nicky.

“Yelena,” he says, “have you met Nicolò Genovese?”

The woman stops.

“ _о Боже_ ,” she says. “No, we’ve not met. But I get my students to watch your performances with Hahn all the time. Accompanists nowadays, I swear.”

Nicky smiles. This style of talk, he’s used to.

“What do you need?” he asks. “I’ve got some spare time.”

Yelena clasps her hands together.

“My saviour,” she says. “I’m focusing on stage techniques today so everyone’ll be playing some really basic stuff. It’ll be a piece of piss for you, honestly.”

Nicky knows better than to trust any Russian tutor who tells him something will be ‘a piece of piss’, but it sounds like a decent challenge and he could use some sight-reading practice.

“Sure,” he says, and goes to lower the piano lid.

“May I stay and watch?” Copley asks.

“Of course,” Yelena says, grinning. “That should wake them right up.”

Five minutes later, the class starts arriving. They all do a double take seeing Nicky at the piano, flicking through sheet music, and Copley sitting in the corner of the hall.

“Class,” Yelena says, “we have a very special guest today. I hope you’ve all been practicing _exactly_ what we discussed because we do not want to waste Mr Genovese’ time, right?”

The class murmurs their assent, and Nicky hides a smile. As much as he hates being introduced that way, it’s always good to make practice more realistic to performance. _A little fear_ , as Andy would say, _goes a long way_.

“Joe, you go first,” Yelena says. “Let’s warm up with _Czardas_.”

Nicky looks around as the nominated student says “Aye aye, captain,” and gets up on stage.

It’s him. It’s the room-hogging, piano-desecrating violinist from Monday.

Nicky’s not sure what his face is doing, but it makes Joe’s smile sharpen into a grin.

“Oh hey,” he says, adjusting his shoulder-rest. “Fancy seeing you again.”

“Indeed,” Nicky says, not trusting himself to say much more. “Tempo?”

“Let Mr Genovese open with the full piano introduction,” Yelena calls out from her seat. “Let’s see you communicate your tempo for once, Joe.”

The class laughs, and Joe quirks an eyebrow as he tunes briefly, and rolls his shoulders back.

“Alright, hotshot,” he says to Nicky. “Ready when you are.”

Violinists tend to cut straight to their opening line in [_Czardas_](https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=ZrvgnHKZd0s) , so Nicky is grateful Yelena’s letting him establish himself with the piano’s opening bars, rolling and dramatic. Nicky’s met too many instrumentalists who have treated accompanists like a background extra, rather than an equal partner. He’s not sure how Joe will be, but he lets his opening chords say _watch it_.

Joe comes in on his cue, perfectly timed. From one breath to the next, he transforms from a casual, slouching student in an old t-shirt to a violinist, his neck a long and graceful line. He’s chosen to stand at the curve of the grand piano, so he can look at Nicky out of the corner of his right eye. When he gets to the violin’s solo bar, he uses it to pull the speed right back, forcing Nicky to follow every exaggerated _rubato_ he adds. It’s so dramatic Nicky wants to roll his eyes, but he’s a _professional_ and also doesn’t want to lose his place. If Joe wants to play clown, fine. Nicky doesn’t have to follow.

However, Nicky has to admit that Joe doesn’t _sound_ like he’s playing clown. He’s overtly expressive, sure, and has the body movement to boot, but he is technically and tonally sound, projecting warmth into every corner of the auditorium. Nicky can feel the hush in the small audience; the baited breath. Joe is playing with his eyes closed, brow drawn in, and Nicky breathes with him, knowing as he watches Joe that his fingers will land precisely as Joe’s do.

At the three minute mark, they reach the most notorious section of the piece. As Joe draws out the three notes leading into the passage, he turns his head, and opens his eyes to look at Nicky. The challenge there could not be any clearer, and Nicky grits his teeth. Fucking violinists and their fucking obsession with this damn section. They never care how much harder it is for the pianist here.

Joe gathers speed with each bar like he’s about to take off, and Nicky matches him, eyes flicking between his hands, the score and Joe, who is grinning now, fingers blurring around perfectly clear notes. Nicky realises Joe has faced completely away from the audience to play _at him_ , and Nicky tilts his head sharply, gesturing for Joe to turn back around. At that, Joe takes his chin off his instrument and mouths _faster, faster_ , all without disrupting his phrasing, and it makes Nicky miss his page turn and lose his left hand for a moment as he catches up, which, okay, fuck this guy.

They reach the next section, and Nicky knows it well enough to continue glaring at Joe, who is _still playing at him_ , and has such a shit-eating expression on his face that Nicky angrily stabs his way through his broken chords. Joe’s harmonics go perfectly. Of course they do. If he could play that well _upside down_ he better sound Goddamn perfect the right way up.

They finish the piece at an absolute sprint, but Nicky can’t even fault Joe because he doesn’t do it at the expense of technique, or clarity, he’s just – it’s just a crisp run of _staccato_ semiquavers all the way, and the accompaniment is so _fun_ Nicky can’t help but smile a little, despite his annoyance. When Nicky throws in the _glissando_ from the top of the keyboard to the bottom, he hears Joe laugh, and they complete the last three chords in perfect sync, Joe hitting the last note with such a flourish he nearly drops his bow.

They stop, eyes still locked, both breathing like they actually sprinted the last twenty bars. Nicky wants to say something, but no words come, and the air stretches thin between them, caught in the liminal space of post-performance. There’s emotion, high in his chest, but for the life of him he can’t articulate what it is.

As if from a distance, Nicky hears the hall break into applause. He turns, then, and finds Joe’s class clapping wildly, some whistling. Joe turns too, and gives a deep, sweeping bow. Nicky finds Yelena, and sees her sitting, head tilted, not clapping. Copley has moved to take the chair beside her. He has a strange expression on his face; caught between wonder and calculation. 

Joe waves at him, and Nicky does roll his eyes then, but he concedes to standing and giving a small bow. The class breaks into fresh cheers, and really, it’s all very ridiculous.

“So you do know how to smile,” Joe says, and Nicky realises he’s been caught. He scowls immediately.

“So you do know how to play standing up,” he says, and Joe laughs.

“I’m sorry about your piano,” he says. “It was for art?”

Nicky glares at him, but before he can respond, Yelena’s standing up.

“And that,” she says, “was another al-Kaysani special, and probably why we keep losing our accompanists.” She gives Nicky a wry smile, which he returns with a shrug. “Luckily, Mr Genovese is made of sterner stuff. Now, let’s dissect that exchange in the opening section…”

~*~

Copley asks to see him the next day. Being called to the Dean’s office still makes Nicky run a hand through his hair and straighten his jacket, even if he is no longer a too-young boy at a too-old conservatory.

“Heard you had a hectic first week,” Copley says as they sit down. “I thought you were taking a break.”

“I was mainly teaching and playing with others,” Nicky says. “That’s a good break. I’m looking forward to the student concerts before I go back on tour.”

“Yes, about that…” Copley says, and he regards Nicky with an expression that immediately has Nicky’s shoulders tightening. Copley is famous for his ambitious ideas. Nicky might call them weird, but the Americans seem to love it.

“You and Mr al-Kaysani make quite the pair,” Copley says, and Nicky sits back, surprised. Somehow, this was more unexpected than if Copley had suggested he do a duet with a triangle.

“Excuse me?” he says, and then, as his brain catches up, “Oh, no.”

“No?” Copley says, looking amused. “That was the most engaging performance I’ve seen in a long time.”

“With respect,” Nicky says, “You saw us perform one short piece, unrehearsed, where he spent most of the time showing off and goading me.”

“You looked like you were having a lot of fun,” Copley says, and Nicky remembers himself smiling at the end. Ugh.

“Hardly,” he says. “Besides, you saw me playing with the other students as well, many of whom were fantastic. And I’m scheduled to touch base with a few others over the next few weeks.”

“It’s a pity we didn’t record that class,” Copley says. “I doubt you’d be saying this if you could watch yourself back, from the audience.”

“It was probably bad considering he _stopped facing the audience_ halfway through.”

Copley laughs, and Nicky crosses his arms, trying not to scowl.

“I’ve been watching you play for a long time, Nicky,” he says, “both alone and in every combination with other artists. Trust me when I say something is different. Yelena agrees.”

“I think she also said something about al-Kaysani scaring off accompanists,” Nicky says.

“But not you,” Copley says. “Besides, on that point, I think you could both learn something from each other.”

“I’m here to teach piano, not violinists who can’t play with an accompanist,” Nicky says.

“I think you could _both_ learn something,” Copley repeats, and Nicky bristles. Copley raises a placating hand.

“I thought you’d be happy I had a suggestion this early on,” he says. “What’s the resistance with Joe? You can’t always play with people you get along with straight away.”

 _He hung off my piano_ does not feel like a good reason to bring up right now, and it’s not even the main thing (although it certainly did not help). Something about Joe just – the way he played – rubbed Nicky the wrong way. Thinking about it made his fingers itch in a way that would not abate. However…

“You’re right,” Nicky concedes. “But I want to reiterate – you saw one very short piece. It could’ve been a fluke.”

“That’s true,” Copley says. “We should test that.”

“What?” Nicky says.

“You know how often we run performances,” Copley says. “It fits right into your plans here. Let’s have you two take a slot in say, a couple of weeks. See if you prove me wrong.”

Nicky stops, taking in the corner he’s been backed into. He _is_ here to play with others again; he will also never prove Copley wrong with a bad performance.

“Well then,” Copley says, like he knows exactly what Nicky’s thinking. Nicky fights the urge to grind his teeth. “This works well with our arrangement. I realise you’re on a shortened timeframe to comb through the students this year. I wanted to get Joe in your schedule before you were all booked up.” His tone is mild, but final.

“What’s so special about him?” Nicky asks, unsure if he’s more curious or irritated at the insistence. Copley laughs.

“I’ll let you find out for yourself,” he says, and that, apparently, is that.

~*~

Booker laughs when he sees Nicky, and asks,“Hug first, or straight to drinks?”

“That obvious?” Nicky says, and pulls Booker in for a tight hug. Booker smells suspiciously like scotch, and Nicky surreptitiously checks his watch. 4 pm on a Friday. Not the worst, but not the best, either. “How was your flight?”

“ _Bien, bien_ ,” Booker says, rounding the corner of the bar and rummaging around with practiced ease. “Got in yesterday, Andy picked me up.”

“Glad you could make it,” Nicky says, and clinks glasses with Booker. “It’s great to have everyone in one place again.”

“You and Andy just miss my cocktails,” Booker says, but he’s smiling. Getting together has become increasingly difficult, with Andy now teaching in New York, Booker’s flagship bars in France, and Nicky’s eighty-plus concerts a year. They have a Whatsapp chat that mainly consists of Nicky saying _Berlin, early Thursday 21_ _st_ _to late Sunday 24_ _th_ _,_ and either Booker replying _mine @ 8pm Fri?,_ or Andy taking an age to write out _duty free vodka please_.

However, with his schedule cleared for the States from September, Nicky had sent out the call early, and somehow the stars had aligned.

“Have you caught up with Nile yet?” Booker asks, propping his chin on his hand. Nicky shakes his head.

“Not yet,” he says. “It’s going to be a big year for her, though. I’m glad we’ll be around for some of it, at least.”

Booker’s face softens in the unique way it always does around Nile, de-aging him several years.

“For sure,” he says. “We might need to have a word with Andy though. I think she’s being a bit –”

“A bit what?” Andy strides through the entrance with a rush of cold air. She’s in her usual all-black, with her customary air of having had an exceedingly long week. Nicky can relate.

“Jesus, woman,” Booker says, clasping a hand over his chest. “How did you even hear that?”

“I could read your lips through the glass,” Andy says, and holds out her arms. “Come here, asshole.”

Booker pushes off the bar to hug her, Andy cupping the back of his neck and squeezing before she lets go. “And you,” she says, rounding on Nicky, who smiles and stands for his own hug. Andy is firm and familiar in his arms, and it brings back such a wave of nostalgia he doesn’t want to let go. He feels her smile against his cheek before they break apart.

“Drinks, then bitching, in that order,” she orders, and Booker salutes. “I want us out before the student rush. I’ve seen enough of them this week.”

“I’m sure they’ve seen enough of you too,” Booker mutters, and Andy reaches out to smack him. “But before we get to you, Nicky came in looking like he’d been sucking a lemon.”

“I did _not_ ,” Nicky says, indignant, but Andy raises an eyebrow at him, and he can never lie to her.

“Copley,” he says, which he feels is an explanation in itself, “has some bright ideas about my collaboration options.”

“Mm?” Andy says, picking up the glass Booker slides in front of her. “And who did he suggest?”

“Some violinist,” Nicky says. “Joe something. No idea why. We don’t match at all.”

“al-Kaysani?” Andy says, and Nicky looks at her, surprised.

“ _Sì_ ,” he says, “You know him?”

“Dumb question,” Booker says. “Andy knows everyone.”

“I discovered him, actually,” Andy says. “Got him to apply after I tracked him down.”

Nicky shakes his head. “Andy, I have no idea what you do in your spare time and I’m scared to ask, but honestly, he seems a little…”

“He’s unorthodox,” Andy says, “but I think you’ll be surprised at what he can do.”

“Uh oh,” Booker says at the look on Nicky’s face. “You know he doesn’t like the U word, Andromache.”

Nicky rolls his eyes at Booker, who laughs and asks Andy about Nile. They talk until the bar officially opens for the evening, and retire shortly after to avoid the rush.

“God, we’re old,” Booker says after he finishes chatting to his bar manager. “Remember when 2 a.m. used to be early for us?”

“Yes,” Andy says, just as Nicky says “No,” and they laugh as they walk down the street, Andy’s hands tucked into both of their arms. Nicky feels warm despite the autumn chill, and more relaxed than he’s been all year. It’s good, he thinks, to be with family again.

~*~

By the time Nicky meets Joe again, he is decidedly less relaxed. He visits conservatories with as little fanfare as possible, but it’s rather in vain. By the time the tenth faculty member has approached him with a candidate, he’s torn between appreciating Copley’s quick organisation and being irritated at the Dean-level strong-arming. He could say no, if he really wanted to, but he’s unsure if Yelena’s already told Joe about Copley’s idea, which would make things supremely awkward. He also understands Copley’s point. The flautist and cellist he picks two weeks later are both students he’s met before, and whose training backgrounds mirror his. It makes things easier, of course, but perhaps he should branch out a little. Besides, if Andy is recommending the guy, Nicky supposes he should give Joe a chance. Even if he is a show-off with no respect for grand pianos.

Nicky’s tenuous goodwill is waning rapidly when Joe is late to their lunch meeting. Nicky would have thought being publicly reamed by conductors for lateness would have beaten the tardiness out of any classical musician, but apparently not.

Joe arrives ten minutes after their agreed time, barely out of breath, carrying both his violin and a bulky camera bag. Nicky sips the water he’s already had to refill, and watches as Joe greets the maître d’ like an old friend. He’s in a plain grey t-shirt and has a baseball cap on backwards, curls sticking out the front. The maître d’ eyes him sceptically, but Joe has spotted Nicky at that point and is waving. Nicky very much does not want to wave back.

“So sorry I’m late,” Joe says as he sits down, dumping his bags at his feet. The waiter motions to take them, but Joe stops him, earning him another disapproving look. “I was out filming.”

“Filming what?” Nicky asks, picking up the menu even though he already knows what he’ll order.

“Oh, bit of music, bit of b-roll,” Joe says. At Nicky’s confused look, he says, “I make videos.”

“For class?” Nicky asks. Joe shakes his head.

“Nah, for myself,” he says, and then adds, “I have a YouTube channel.”

Nicky’s knowledge of YouTube encompasses the music function, the weird videos Nile sends him, and apparently an entire industry of performers doing pop covers and getting in the way at every tourist attraction Nicky has ever been to. His scepticism rises a couple of notches.

Joe’s eyebrows raise as he skims the menu, but when the waiter reappears, he orders like he comes here every day. Thankfully, he’s taken his baseball cap off at this point.

“So,” Joe says as they wait for their food, “I googled you.”

This is, perhaps, Nicky’s least favourite opening sentence in the world.

“Did you write it yourself?” Joe continues, swiping open his phone. Nicky stares at him.

“Of course not,” he says.

“Well, it’s very impressive,” Joe says, and he has Nicky’s damn Wikipedia page open. The opening photo is a horrible one of Nicky at eighteen, winning the International Bach Competition in Leipzig. Joe scrolls past it and quotes, “ _Genovese now performs around a hundred concerts annually, and has been at the top of the international concert scene since he was seventeen.”_ He pauses, and glances at Nicky. “That’s quite a line.”

Nicky, who is fighting the immense urge to smack Joe’s phone out of his hand, just shrugs. “It’s an exaggeration,” he says. “And it’s not uncommon.”

“Uh, even by Julliard standards, that’s uncommon,” Joe says, and then stops at another line. “ _Genovese is particularly well-known for his collaborations with other world-leading performers, often touring with or including them in his concert series._ ” He looks up, sly. “Gosh, it’s going to my head already.”

“Copley set it up,” Nicky says, more pointedly than perhaps necessary, but Joe just nods.

“Thought so,” he says. “But do you usually wine and dine your performers? Or am I just special?”

Nicky is familiar enough with the connotations of _wine and dine_ that he frowns.

“Well, I prefer to understand who I’m working with outside of the performance,” he says. “After all, what is the art without the artist? You risk missing half its soul.”

Joe stares at him, and then bursts out laughing. Nicky’s frown deepens.

“Oh, sorry,” Joe says, waving a hand, “I didn’t realise you were being serious.”

“Of course I was,” Nicky says, irritated. “I’m always serious about performing.”

“Yeah, I got that,” Joe says. “Do you ever lighten up? Or is this just your constant state of being?”

“Do you ever take anything seriously?” Nicky replies, deadpan. “Or is clowning around _your_ constant state of being?”

Joe puts a hand over his chest at that, and mimes tipping out of his chair, slain.

“A fatal rebuttal!” he exclaims, and Nicky doesn’t even bother to roll his eyes, just raises them slightly heavenwards. He predicts he’ll be doing that a lot around Joe. 

When their food arrives, Nicky says, “Andy tells me she discovered you. What were you doing before Julliard?”

Joe’s eyes crinkle, and he says, “Oh, you know Andy?” to which Nicky fights the petty urge to say _yes, and longer than you have._

“Yes, we met when I was studying at the Royal Academy,” he says instead.

“See, now, why there’s not a Wikipedia for her, I’ll never know,” Joe says, and Nicky has to nod in agreement. “Anyway, before this I was actually doing a whole bunch of random stuff, just trying to live here and keep doing the arts stuff, you know?”

Nicky decidedly does not know what that means.

“Where were you training before Julliard?” he asks. Joe’s forehead creases a little.

“Nowhere,” he says.

“What do you mean, _nowhere?_ ” Nicky says, unsure if Joe is still messing around. Joe’s looking at him like he’s the one who’s strange again.

“I mean as in, I wasn’t training in violin,” Joe says, slowly. “But I did a bunch of odd-jobs after high school, anything that meant I could also practice and do theatre, orchestra, you name it, I’ve probably done it. Oh, and my channel,” he adds, gesturing at his bags. “I think that’s how Andy found me. She just turned up at the store I was working at one day and bullied me into applying. No one believes me when I tell them that.”

“I can believe that,” Nicky says, and Joe looks at him, surprised. “Andy is a woman of many mysteries. But her timing is always impeccable.”

“Agreed,” Joe says.

“But who were you taking lessons from then?” Nicky asks. He remembers every tutor he’s ever had; it’s customary for musicians to note who they’re studying under at conservatories.

Joe shakes his head, and it’s the first time Nicky has seen him look even a little less than happy.

“I told you,” Joe says, “no one. I know that’s not the norm, but that’s the truth.”

“You must have had lessons at some point,” Nicky says, and Joe rolls his eyes.

“Yeah, sure,” he says. “I did during high school and some afterwards. I learnt off friends. Lots of skill-trading, which is cool. But otherwise, I just practiced and taught myself.”

Nicky knows he is staring, but he can’t help it – what Joe is saying is simply too strange.

“You taught…yourself,” he repeats. Joe’s smile is gone at this point.

“Right,” he says, shortly. “No one believes that either.”

“It’s just…” Nicky begins, and he senses, rather than sees, Joe’s shoulders tighten. “It’s unusual,” he says, “but…impressive, if that’s the case.”

Joe tilts his head.

“Well, thanks, I guess.” he says carefully, like he’s equally unsure of what Nicky’s saying.

“Who taught you to play originally?” Nicky says, curiosity overriding propriety. Luckily, this question seems to make Joe relax a little.

“My mother,” he says. “She was a wonderful player. Put up with all my horrible screeching and always told me it was brilliant.”

The smile Joe gives then is different from all the ones Nicky has seen previously. There’s no fight in it, only a warmth that changes Joe’s entire face beneath his scruffy beard.

They eat in silence for a moment before Joe asks,

“What about you, hotshot? You’re probably asked about your training all the time. What do you do outside of piano?”

Nicky pauses, wiping his mouth with his napkin.

“What do you mean, outside of piano?”

Joe is really looking at him like he’s dumb now, making Nicky’s previous irritation spike again. _Joe’s_ the one with the weird backstory, not him. As far as Nicky is concerned, he’s much alike to any child who started playing early, and got lucky with performing.

“What do you enjoy doing outside of practicing and performing,” Joe clarifies, and Nicky always hates this question because frankly he has no good answer. He has a standard one he’ll say for the odd interview, but he feels Joe will see right through it.

“I enjoy cooking,” he says instead, which is true. “And travelling. So touring helps with that. But otherwise I don’t have a lot of spare time.”

“Sheesh,” Joe says, making a face. “That explains things.”

“What things?” Nicky says, unsure why he’s asking. Judging by Joe’s face, it isn’t a compliment.

“Eh,” Joe says, waving a hand at Nicky’s entire being. “Everything.”

~*~

So turns out…Nicolò Genovese is a bit of an ass.

Certainly not the worst one Joe has met, but it’s almost comedic how stereotypically he epitomises every artist who’s condescended to Joe for not training since he was in diapers. Not to mention the aneurysm he looked like he was having when he found Joe hanging off the piano. So precious.

Joe had heard of him before of course, but vaguely, a name blurring amidst many others. He had learnt quickly which names he could question, and which he had to pretend to know immediately, lest people give him the self-satisfied look of incredulity. Genovese was a name you knew. And sure, he accompanied well, but so did plenty of Joe’s friends, and they all looked a lot happier doing it.

Still, he knew the prestige that came with playing with Nicky when he visited. It grated, to hear it had been Copley’s idea rather than Nicky’s, even though he shouldn’t care either way. It was probably all part of the wider plot. The minute he’d stepped into Julliard, it was all about _refining_ his playing, _polishing_ his performances and _realising his potential_. It wasn’t hard to decode that; faculty thought Andy had picked a lump of coal off the street, and they now had to shape a diamond out of it. Apparently, sticking him with Mr Uptight Upright is part of that plan. Joe isn’t one to look a gift horse in the mouth. Doesn’t mean he can’t have fun with it though.

Nicky holds a lunchtime recital soon after their first meeting, and Joe supposes he should see what he’s working with. _Missing half the soul,_ his ass. Nicky probably doesn’t even have a whole soul himself, he is so expressionless. Joe will have to crack that. Rehearsals should be fun.

Paul Hall is packed by the time Joe arrives. Luckily, one of his classmates has saved him a seat, and he shuffles in next to her.

“Dude,” Julia says, waving her phone under his nose. “The Spiderman video is doing so well!”

Her screen is paused on a shot of them in the park, along with a few other violinists, all hanging off the playground set by their knees. Joe had filmed them playing a round robin of [Paganini’s Caprice No. 24](https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=Lkn4eBjQ6eU) upside-down, to varying degrees of success. Evidently, they weren’t the only ones who’d been amused, and Joe grins as he flicks through the stats. “We risked our violins for something, then,” he says.

“Did you manage to test it out on a piano?” Julia asks, and Joe laughs.

“Yes, actually,” he says, “before _this one_ caught me.” He gestures at the stage.

Julia gapes.

“ _Nicolò Genovese_ caught you?” she says, almost whispered, and Joe fights the urge to roll his eyes.

“Yes, and it evidently blew his mind,” he says. “I’m performing with him next month.”

He tries not to be offended by the surprise on Julia’s face.

“Wait, you –?” she starts, and then her face clears. “You were _amazing_ when he was in class.”

“I don’t think he agrees,” Joe says, shrugging, “but thanks.”

The lights dim then, and the audience hushes immediately.

Nicky walks out in his full concert tuxedo. _Really_ , Joe thinks. _And people think_ I’m _showy._ The programme opens with a [Bach Partita](https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=wdN6mLJUTig). Joe isn’t a huge fan of Bach, if he’s honest – which he never is, since that’s not an opinion he’s allowed to have, apparently. He crosses his arms, and waits.

Once Nicky is seated on stage, he brings his hands together and bows his head over the keyboard. Joe can see the slow breath he takes, eyes closed. The entire hall is unnaturally silent, for unnaturally long. _If he’s praying_ , Joe thinks, _he could use a shorter prayer._ Finally, Nicky looks up, places his hands over the keys, and begins.

Frankly, Nicky plays with a psychotic level of precision. Every note seems calculated, balanced along the knife-edge of maximum tone at minimum expenditure. Aside from his hands, he moves so little that Joe feels stiff just watching him. And yet, his tone – he puts more colour into Bach than Joe was expecting. There’s a dissonance there, between the still figure in front of him, and the vibrant music he’s hearing. Joe wants to close his eyes and just listen, but he is close enough to see Nicky’s fingers dance across the keys, and they’re oddly mesmerising. They move with a surety that speaks of absolute confidence – not cocky, or showy, but with the fundamental inevitability that they will find the right notes, perfect and pure.

Even at Julliard, there’s a difference between someone ‘good’ and someone like Nicky. Joe has seen every brand of kid who has no doubt had the same silver spoon upbringing as Nicky; private tutors since toddlerhood, primed for competitions, recitals before high school…and sure, they all worked hard, you couldn’t do this and _not_ work hard. But there is something _different_ about a performer, something esoteric and unique that goes beyond the thousands of hours of practice. When it comes to skill, Joe dislikes the idea that anything is pre-ordained, and that you cannot achieve it through hard work. But with music… Sometimes people have a gift that cannot be explained or replicated. And when Joe witnesses it, he remembers the difference between only existing and actually _living_. It’s the same feeling that pulled him to art in the first place; both back home, and then when he was struggling to adapt to the country his parents had sent him to. He’d felt it first through song; through theatre; through his friends who had snuck him backstage or into pit orchestras. He feels it every time he plays his violin, although he’d never assume others felt the same when watching him.

Joe’s mildly disgusted at himself that he’s feeling this way over some stuffy pianist playing Bach, but there’s no point denying it. Joe has never had the luxury of avoiding anything. He’s not about to change that when it comes to joy. So fine, Nicky lives up to his reputation. He’s still an ass. 

When Nicky stands to bow, he looks different. He doesn’t smile, but he’s less tightly wound, like the piece had been building inside him until he performed it, and now his duty was over. The hall is ringing with applause, and he’s forced to do a second bow before they let him leave. Joe watches him go, and thinks Nicky might actually be attractive if it weren’t for that dumb haircut and blank expression. It’s a shame.

~*~

“Really,” Nicky says, flipping through the scores Joe had given him earlier. “[ _Il trillo del Diavolo_ ](https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=orWePX13N3M) . You want to play the _Devil’s Trill_.”

Agreeing on repertoire is a nightmare. Joe had thought suggesting an Italian composer who was also Baroque would be an acceptable compromise, but instead, Nicky keeps suggesting pieces that make Joe want to smack his head against the piano in boredom, while showing little interest in any of Joe’s preferences, which he assumes to mean strong displeasure. Nicky’s lack of cues is unnerving, if Joe’s honest – he’s used to reading people very quickly and very well. To get so little from Nicky is unsettling, and makes Joe want to poke at him until he gets an overt response. If that response is annoyance or anger, well. It’s better than nothing. Nicky probably needs to let off a little steam anyway. Joe would be doing him a favour.

Finally, Nicky had conceded to running through a revised shortlist Joe picks, considering Joe is technically the soloist. Joe supposes he should be impressed that Nicky seems to be familiar with every option Joe throws at him; instead, it makes Joe want to test what he’ll be stumped by. Apparently, Tartini’s most famous work is doing the job.

“Have you played it before?” Joe asks, violin tucked under his arm. Ironically, they’re back in the same practice room they had first met in, and Nicky’s eyeing him like he remembers exactly what Joe had been doing that time. Joe wonders if Nicky will bring it up. It’s not like Joe is suddenly going to mount the piano again, for Christ’s sake.

“Not yet,” Nicky says. “The accompaniment isn’t difficult, but the violin part is…”

He stops turning the pages, and Joe can see his hands resting on the final section, where the piano stops and the violin has its infamous solo passage.

“Yep, it’s a bitch,” Joe says. “But really cool.”

“Only if you do it right.”

“Obviously,” Joes says, keeping the smile on his face. “I’m not exactly planning on _not_ doing it right.”

“That’s not what I –” Nicky starts, and Joe notes how his accent gets slightly thicker when he can’t quite find the right phrase in English, or gets a little flustered. Every interaction with Nicky is like a treasure hunt, digging for the tiniest details. “I want _you_ to be sure about it,” Nicky finishes, and Joe can’t help but feel that’s a challenge.

“Sure I’m sure,” he says. “Let’s run the list.”

More than anything, Joe is curious. He’d been messing around in class, of course, because it’s always fun to see the uptight types sweat it. But Nicky had matched him effortlessly, albeit grudgingly. Near the end, he’d caught Nicky smiling, and they’d finished like they’d been performing together for weeks. Any two musicians can play noise at the same time and pretend that’s a duet; but to _actually_ play together is an entirely different experience. It’s like every over-written love song – you don’t believe it until you’re feeling it, and Joe has never been a cynic. He loves the intuition of it; simply _feeling_ when something is perfect together. You have to communicate without words and often without sight, and it’s the closest human beings can get to reading each other’s minds, Joe thinks. He’d felt that playing with Nicky, in fleeting moments and passages, but dialled up to ten. He wants to find that again, if they can.

They play through Joe’s shortlist of Tartini, Mendelssohn, Saint-Saëns and Ravel, and the contradictions of playing with Nicky unfolds over the breadth of the pieces. They’re both still focused somewhat on their own parts: Joe skipping certain passages he’s still learning, Nicky sight-reading some parts. But when they reach familiar sections and really _play_ , the synchronicity is thrilling. Nicky doesn’t say much, but Joe knows he must feel it too – that ability to feel what the other is going to do a millisecond before they do it. There’s also very much places where they’re out of sync; where Joe wants to move in a certain way but feels Nicky pulling at him, holding him back. In more difficult passages of interplay between the piano and violin, he can’t get the timing right without looking at Nicky, which doesn’t even help considering Nicky’s blank stare.

“You can’t keep turning around,” Nicky says for the fourth time, to which Joe replies,

“I wouldn’t if I could tell what you were doing,” and Nicky’s face does something funny before he opens his mouth to retort, and then they’re off to the races.

~*~

By third rehearsal, Nicky is contemplating giving Copley a full hour lecture on how wrong his bet was. Or just murdering him. Post-Joe, Nicky always feels slightly murderous.

“He’s fucking unhinged,” Nicky says to Booker, ensconced at Andy’s flat. Andy is currently out, which Nicky prefers because he doesn’t want to badmouth Joe in front of someone who knows him. It also meant that Booker has heard _a lot_ about Joe.

“You’ve played with expressive performers before,” Booker says, hands behind his head. He looks more amused than Nicky thinks the situation warrants. Nicky is quite upset, actually. He’s so upset he has to switch to Italian, because frankly, English is not descriptive enough to describe how unhinged Joseph al-Kaysani is.

“Expressiveness I can stand,” Nicky says, “I recorded an entire album with Ray, remember? No, I mean _unhinged_ .” He pauses, going for his drink but getting confused at the number of glasses on the table between them. Booker helpfully pushes the fullest one towards him. “I have no idea how he practices, he keeps skipping passages and telling me _ha, I’ll wing it._ You can’t _wing_ Tartini this close to performance, Booker!” He gestures for emphasis, and nearly gets wine on Andy’s couch. “He has the weirdest fingering and bowing technique, which I’m sure isn’t from Yelena; his tone runs so raw sometimes I’m surprised my ears aren’t bleeding. Can he even read the directions on the page? He certainly doesn’t follow them. Also, is he going to start interpretive dancing? He walks in circles when he plays, Booker, _circles_ . He nearly walked into the piano because he had his eyes closed. And when he has his eyes _open_ , he’s staring at me. It’s fucking weird – Booker, stop laughing, I’m serious!”

“ _Je suis désolé_ ,” Booker says, but he’s still giggling, the bastard. “It’s just – I haven’t seen you like this in a while, Nicky.”

“Yes, because I’ve been playing with _normal people_ ,” Nicky says, darkly.

“He can’t be that bad,” Booker says. “Not if both Copley and Andy are vouching for him.”

“He probably charmed them,” Nicky mutters, and Booker’s eyebrows rise.

“So he’s charming,” he says, and Nicky snorts.

“No, he’s just a clown. I was attending orchestra rehearsal and he’s just there making everyone laugh. His bowing was wrong half the time and he has horrible posture. Beyond unprofessional.”

Booker’s eyebrows remain raised.

“Okay,” Nicky amends, grudging. “He’s not bad. But that’s what’s confusing. If he just calmed down and played, he could be – he’s brilliant. So why does he have to be so – _so –_ ”

He does spill wine on Andy’s couch then, trying to find the words to describe how _infuriating_ Joe is, and they both swear, jumping to fix it and spilling more wine in the process, which is of course when Andy arrives home.

“What the fuck, Booker,” she says. Nicky’s frozen in place, wine glass in the air, while Booker’s half on top of him, brandishing paper towels.

“It was Nicky!” Booker says immediately, the traitor. Nicky smacks at him, but unfortunately he uses the hand holding the glass, and spills the remaining wine over Booker, who rears back and almost flips over the coffee table.

“Oh for fuck’s sake.” Andy catches Booker and shoves him back onto the opposite couch. “I leave you two for _one evening_.”

“Sorry, Andy,” Nicky says forlornly into his now-empty glass. “Booker was laughing at me.”

“I was _not_ ,” Booker starts, but Andy sits down next to Nicky and puts an arm around his shoulders. It’s only when he rests his head against her that he realises how drunk he is. Whoops.

“What were you guys talking about?” Andy asks, faux-concerned, and Nicky makes a grumbling noise.

“Nicky’s upset over some weird fingering,” Booker says, and both Nicky and Andy groan.

“You’ve been around musicians too long to make that joke,” Andy says, but Booker shrugs, looking pleased with himself.

“I’m not wrong.”

“This about Joe?” Andy says, and Nicky nods, which only makes his head spin.

“Just call it off if you hate it that much,” Andy says, squeezing his shoulders.

“No,” Nicky says. “Not fucking quitting.”

He feels Andy giving Booker one of their looks above his head, and reaches up to stop Andy’s face. She catches his hand, laughing.

“You’re both morons,” she says, but Nicky’s fading by that point, the fatigue of the week hitting him in one fell swoop. He drifts off to the sound of her and Booker, speaking softly in French. He can hear his name and Joe’s, mixed in there, but by the morning, he doesn’t remember what was being said. 

~*~

“Okay,” Joe says during their fifth rehearsal. “I am _begging_ you to emote.”

Nicky gets that constipated look he always does when Joe critiques him like this. Joe’s not sure how he can even tell Nicky’s expression has changed, but he can. It’s probably from the concentrated time they’ve been spending, locked in a tiny room together for hours on end. Joe has lost count of the arguments they’ve accumulated by now. Nicky picks at his playing style, his practice methodology, every interpretative choice he makes. Joe snipes at Nicky’s zealous adherence to score and notation, his predictability in tone and phrasing. Joe would joke about them having issues with how the other one breathes, but that’s actually been brought up multiple times. They’ve managed to maintain some semblance of professionalism, but it’s fraying rapidly. All Joe knows right now is when they play, Nicky’s doing his statue thing, and it’s really. Putting. Him. Off.

“What do you mean,” Nicky says, like he doesn’t really want to know.

“As in, I need you to match my style and give more obvious signs so I can feel we’re together when I’m not facing you.”

“We are together,” Nicky says, looking like he wished the opposite. “I’m following you.”

“Not with that attitude you’re not,” Joe says, and Nicky’s face grows more obstinate.

“I _am_ ,” he says, then adds, “no one else has had that complaint.”

“Yeah, well, I do,” Joe says. He’s not about to let Nicky make this _Joe’s_ problem. “And I need you to loosen up and give me something to work with.”

“Oh, you want me to play more like you?” Nicky asks, and Joe mentally gives himself a prize for identifying the edge in Nicky’s tone. “Improvising technique, ignoring direction, moving so much for no reason –”

“I don’t move for no reason,” Joe says, rolling his eyes. He’s had this argument so many times already his patience for it is knife-thin. “It’s how I play, I can’t _not_ play like that –”

“And this is how _I_ play,” Nicky says. “At least I don’t sacrifice the score for _showmanship_ –”

“Oh, okay, I see how it is,” Joe says, putting his violin down and crossing his arms, because if _that’s_ the blow Nicky wants to go for, fine. “Mr Note-Perfect here is going to give me a lesson about technique in an instrument you don’t even play, when no one here has the balls to tell you that _you_ play like a machine –”

“That’s not fucking true,” Nicky says, so vehemently it derails Joe for a moment. “I just don’t _disrespect the original score_ and assume I know better than the composer –”

“Oh for fuck’s sake,” Joe says, gesticulating, “not _that_ argument, you know it’s stupid; a different interpretation is not ‘disrespecting’ the composer, and if you’re going to have such a narrow take on _what the composer would want_ anyway –”

“Just because I don’t play like I’m running a circus, doesn’t mean it’s narrow,” Nicky says, and he stands to jab a finger at Joe. “You have such a childish view on classical training –”

“ _Childish_? I have a – oh, fuck you, Nicky,” Joe says, noting Nicky’s pissy expression with some glee. Finally, a strong emotion! “Just because I haven’t grown up on my knees for this shit and all its archaic rules –”

“Don’t be crass,” Nicky says, glaring. “Just because you don’t understand why we train this way –”

“Because I didn’t have that option, smartass,” Joe says, “I had to fucking teach myself, so sue me if it’s a little different!”

“You’re being taught _now_ ,” Nicky says, making a sweeping gesture around them. “You’re at one of the greatest conservatories in the world, and to think you’re above learning from that is such a waste of opportunity –”

Joe’s blood runs cold for a second, and then boiling hot.

“Don’t you _dare_ ,” he says, right into Nicky’s face, “don’t you _ever_ dare tell me I’m _wasting my opportunity_ , you stuck up son of a bitch. I do three times the work just to catch up and not have assholes like you shit on me constantly, I work multiple jobs just to pay for my existence, I drag my ass here off four hours sleep, max, and you want to lecture me about _waste_ –”

There’s a knock at the door. Joe cuts himself off, realising how loud his voice – both their voices – had risen. They stare at each other, the sting of unsaid words still taut between them, before Joe says, without taking his eyes off Nicky, “Yes?”

A terrified looking first-year sticks their head around the door. Her eyes widen when she takes in Nicky, standing at the piano, and Joe, almost nose to nose.

“I’m sorry,” she says, wincing, “but I booked –”

“It’s fine,” Nicky says, stepping back from Joe. “We’re done here.”

~*~

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> So, this was actually first drafted all the way back in August last year, as the first big WIP I went feral over immediately after watching the film. And then I got distracted by Quidditch AU for…5 months 😅 but I promised to bring this back from the war, and here we are. Thank you to everyone who waited so (im)patiently for this ❤
> 
> Bonus points if you spotted the references to real-life musicians or resonated with my gratuitous classical training/conservatory MomentsTM 😂 All repertoire mentioned are pieces I love dearly and thought would specifically suit the scene and characters. I’d highly recommend a listen!  
> Particular pieces of note in the 1st movement:  
> 1\. [ Caprice No. 24 by Paganini ](https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=Lkn4eBjQ6eU) – what Joe and his friends are playing in the Spiderman Challenge, and what Nicky first hears him playing upside-down (do not try this at home, kids. Take this from personal experience). [Here's a version](https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=eOjO4ekcJQA) where you can see it with shenanigans involved!  
> 2\. [ Czardas by Monti](https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=ZrvgnHKZd0s) – the very first piece Joe and Nicky play together during Joe’s class; this particular recording has the glorious piano opening mentioned.
> 
> All feedback welcome – it’s a bit of a trip for me to come back to something that started so soon after I’d first watched the movie, and to be channeling those early JoeNicky vibes into such a specific modern AU! Would love to know what you thought ❤


	2. 2nd movement

Nicky does what he always does when anything happens – he holes up in a room and plays the piano for several hours straight. Specifically, he drills [Chopin’s _Études_](https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=GGAnCaIAdYE) until his hands are cramping, fingers burning, and then he shakes it out and keeps going, over and over the same runs until he’s at least halfway happy. _A machine_ , he thinks grimly, staring at his fingers. _Can a machine do_ this _?_

A part of him fervently wants Joe to be there, just so Nicky can turn to him amidst the impossibly fast scales and multi-handed chords and show him, _see, I can also play like a madman, you happy?_ Another part of him is kicking himself for caring what this – this _idiot_ thinks. What does he know? He can’t even hold his bow properly, for God’s sake.

Nicky’s fingers stumble over the broken arpeggios in the 12th _Étude_ and he grits his teeth, resisting the urge to slam his hands down on the keys. At twenty-six, he likes to think he’s long beyond exhibiting that kind of behaviour; usually doesn’t even get upset enough to contemplate it. But right now, as he feels the impact of each key against his fingers, anger rises through him, thick and cloying. He’s lifted the piano lid as far up as it will go, and he’s playing so hard the noise is rolling over him in waves, ears ringing with it. And yet – he still can’t get Joe’s words _out of his head._

If there is one thing Nicky cannot tolerate, it is _distraction_.

Distraction is dangerous for both practice and performance; distraction tells Nicky something is wrong. When he’s playing, _properly_ playing, nothing else exists. It’s one of his favourite things about music: the complete peace it brings to his brain, but a peace that makes him feel more alive than he knows how to explain. He protects that headspace fiercely, and safeguards it with strict routines. There should be no other thoughts when he plays, and certainly no reruns of Joe’s voice, cutting through the music. The harder he tries to focus, the worse it gets, and it’s been such a long time since he’s felt this lack of control that he’s forgotten how to manage it. 

Nicky remembers being six or seven, being cuffed upside the head for staring out the window in the middle of lessons, watching the other children playing outside. He remembers throwing tantrums because he wasn’t allowed out until he’d finished practicing, which wasn’t _fair_ because by that time it was always already dark. Not that he had many friends to play _with_ , but it was the principle of the matter. No one had yelled at him, but he remembers the overwhelming sense of disappointment from his tutors, and the embarrassment from his parents.

“You have been blessed, Nicolò,” his first teacher always told him. “You have a gift far beyond your years. Act like it.”

He remembers feeling something different, something worse, at the looks on people’s faces when he couldn’t hold his anger in. But when he copied the older children he competed against and the adults he watched perform, his tutors would nod and his parents would smile. It became a lot easier after that.

He’s aware, distantly, of how some people perceive a childhood like his; had felt the difference switching countries and jumping four grades to go to conservatory at fifteen. But it’s a difficult thing to understand unless you yourself are in it, and Nicky only really knows people who are in it with him. It’s like being part of a secret society, where you can tell immediately if someone has had the same upbringing, the same trials, the same absolute dedication to their chosen art form. You can connect without speaking the same language, or without speaking much at all, which Nicky is a big fan of. It isn’t as if he loves the strict adherence to rules or traditions – but they are intertwined with everything he does love. They ground him, no matter where he goes, and help him get as close to perfection as humanly possible.

Joe looks at Nicky like he hates all of it; all of the things that Nicky cannot imagine being without. And Nicky’s knee-jerk reaction is to think him weak, because so many are – too lazy to work hard enough, not paying enough attention to details or nuance to see the beauty in them. But when Joe had rounded on him, _don’t you ever dare tell me_ , Nicky had found it hard to maintain that accusation. He’d mainly been looking at the back of Joe’s head for that rehearsal, and it was not until he’d turned around that Nicky had realised how _tired_ he was. It’s usually hard to tell, what with Joe’s default being bright and smiling, but in that moment, he’d looked impossibly old, fists clenched, eyes bloodshot, skin stretched thin over his face. Nicky hears his _three times the work; multiple jobs; assholes like you_ , beating against his brain, and feels like he’s missed a step on the stairs, like he’s been missing something all along.

His phone vibrates, knocking him out of his reverie. It’s almost always on silent, but his manager is in the middle of wrangling next year’s performance plans and is starting to ask about touring partners. He knows she’s getting nervous at his lack of decision, but he’d rather tour alone than with someone he’s not a hundred percent sure of, and so far, neither his flautist nor cellist are there yet.

Nicky checks the caller ID – and then scrambles to pick up.

“Earth to Nicky,” Nile’s voice says. “This is Houston and we have a problem. Firstly, where are you? I thought we were meeting for lunch. Couldn’t get a hold of you.”

Nicky checks his calendar and curses. He _never_ misses appointments.

“I’m so sorry, Nile,” he says, standing up and gathering his scores. “I was practicing, I lost track of time. Are you still free?”

“Just for a little bit longer,” she says. “But my _problem_ is that I forgot my meal prep again, and now Andy is going to kill me for going off plan. Please come recover my body.”

“That isn’t going to happen,” Nicky says, smiling at the familiarity of the situation. “Do we need to go somewhere for food then?”

“Nah, a friend’s dropping something off, bless him,” Nile says. “Meet you outside the studio?”

When he finds her, Nicky folds Nile into a tight hug, feeling the strength in her arms as she squeezes him back.

“I’m so sorry,” he says again, and she laughs.

“It’s fine, Nicky,” she says, “I know what you’re like when you practice.” She pulls back, arms still on his shoulders, and regards him with a look that’s far beyond her years. “What’s wrong, though?”

“Nothing’s wrong,” Nicky says, and gets one of her trademark looks in return. “I shouldn’t have been late, that’s all. I’ve been here for weeks and barely gotten to see you.”

“Aw, well,” she says, smiling and letting him off the hook, “you’re meant to be taking it easy. Shortlisting soloists by prepping three programmes isn’t taking it easy, dude.”

“Well, not all my performers can be as wonderful as you,” Nicky says, and she grins.

“You going to tell me about this year’s then?” she asks. “Who’s the mystery violinist you keep bitching to Booker about?”

“I don’t _bitch_ ,” Nicky says, and ignores Nile’s expression. “And it’s unprofessional to spread names around, you know that.”

“But I thought I was special,” Nile says, widening her eyes. “I thought we were _friends_ , Nicky.”

Before Nicky can retort, a voice calls out “Hey, Nile!” from down the corridor. Nicky’s head snaps around.

Joe is hurrying towards them, the familiar bulk of his violin and camera bag under one arm, a tote bag in the other. He comes to an abrupt halt when he sees Nicky next to Nile, and they both stare at each other, apparently dumbstruck, until Nile clears her throat and says, “’Sup, Joe.”

“Oh,” Joe says, blinking, before holding out the tote bag. “Lunch delivery, as promised. Was a bit hard finding something on plan, but I think I managed it.”

“Oh shit, thank you!” Nile says, looking into the bag. “Wow, you didn’t need to go this fancy, Joe. How much do I owe you?”

“Don’t worry about it,” Joe says, waving a hand, and Nile gives him the same look she’d given Nicky. He just smiles at her, beatific, and it’s his nice smile; the one that’s like the sun coming out from behind a cloud. Nicky shifts on his feet, unsure if he should interrupt. 

Nile glances at him and quickly says, “This is Nicky, by the way. Nicky, Joe; Joe, Nicky.”

“We…” Nicky says, just as Joe’s eyes widen. A moment later, he’s rounding on Nile in sudden horror.

“You _know_ him?” he says, and Nile stares at him, before something clicks in her face and she claps a hand over her mouth.

“ _Nicky’s_ the pianist you were talking about?” she says, starting to laugh.

“I didn’t know you _knew him_ –” Joe says, flapping his free hand at her, and Nile says, “Well, you never actually used his name, did you –”

“I’m confused,” Nicky says, as Nile descends into fits of laughter, and Joe tries to block her words. “What’s going on?”

“God is testing me, that’s what’s going on,” Joe mutters. Beside them, Nile is apparently having the time of her life. Finally, she gets her laughter under control, and claps Joe on the shoulder.

“You know what,” she says, grinning, “I need to get to class early. Thanks for the delivery, Joe. Nicky, I’ll catch up with you soon. I’ll leave you two to it.”

“Hang on, Nile –” Nicky starts, but for some reason, she just makes the playground _I’m watching you_ hand gesture at him and says “Play nice, Nicky,” before turning and walking off, leaving them both staring after her in stunned silence.

“Well,” Joe says, finally.

“Well,” Nicky echoes, and then thinks about Nile’s words. “Coffee?”

\--

“Thank you,” Nicky says abruptly, in the middle of their stilted small talk at the café. It’s been barely twenty-four hours since their disaster of a rehearsal, and Joe is waiting to see how Nicky is going to play it. He’s almost unsure how they can keep working together if neither of them budge, and he’s really not about to apologise for Nicky being an ass. It’s awkward though, dancing around it, and Joe is caught by surprise at Nicky’s words. Nicky looks pained saying them, but also as if he would be more pained by not saying them.

“Thanks for what?” Joe asks, raising an eyebrow.

“For…looking after Nile,” Nicky says, and it’s the first time Joe has seen him unsure. “Looking out for her, I mean.”

“Of course,” Joe says, still surprised. “She does the same for me. She’s a great kid.”

“She really is,” Nicky says, and smiles. It’s a beautiful expression on him, warm and open, and it changes his face so much that Joe has to stare. “I…worry about her when I’m not here,” Nicky continues. “She’s amazing, but she’s so _young_ , and dance is so hard.” He pauses, biting his lip for a moment before adding, “Especially with Andy. I love her, but she’s very hard on the newcomers.”

Joe laughs and Nicky glances at him, still looking uncertain.

“ _That’s_ an understatement,” Joe says. “I’ve heard Nile curse Andy in more ways than I thought existed.”

Nicky makes a small sound, soft but definitely amused, and says, “I’ll bet. I’m just sorry I’m missing all of it.”

“You’re very busy,” Joe says, and he doesn’t know why he’s comforting the dumbass, but he’s never seen Nicky look so regretful and it’s not even his fault. “She’s doing great.”

“Yes, I heard,” Nicky says, and then clears his throat. “You talked to her about me?”

Joe groans, resisting the urge to drop his head onto the table. “In my defence,” he says, “I was very sleep-deprived when I did so.”

Nicky raises an eyebrow at him. “I assume it was none too flattering if you have to defend yourself.”

“Well if you weren’t such an asshole, I wouldn’t have had to say anything, would I.”

Nicky glares at him. Joe thinks they’re about to get back into it, and prepares to kiss his recital opportunity goodbye. But then Nicky opens his mouth, and says, “You’re right. I’m sorry.”

They stare at each other for a long moment. The sheer novelty of Nicky’s words seem to have short-circuited Joe’s brain.

“I’m sorry,” Nicky repeats, grimacing, and adds, “I didn’t know…I didn’t think about you, your background, I –” he stops, looking frustrated. “Joe.”

“Nicky.”

“You are…you’re an incredible violinist, Joe. Don’t look at me like that. You’re very good. Especially considering your lack of training.”

“Okay…” Joe says. He’s used to that line being a backhanded compliment, but Nicky sounds sincere; maybe even a little impressed.

“So I don’t understand why you act the way you do,” Nicky continues slowly, like he’s searching for every word. “You have a gift, and yet you seem to hate the training that will hone that gift. I don’t understand.”

“I don’t hate the training,” Joe starts, searching for words himself. He rarely gets the opportunity to explain himself, and he’d never expected someone like Nicky to be interested in listening. And yet here they are. “Or else I wouldn’t have applied, no matter how much Andy threatened me.” They share a quick smile at that, and Joe wonders for a second if that’s the first time that’s happened. “I respect the training. I think it’s open to critique, as all things are, but I want to learn from it, of course I do. And for the most part, I have amazing teachers, classmates, opportunities – and I’d be an idiot to turn down those opportunities. But…” He pauses, trying to judge how much honesty Nicky can take. People tend to get uncomfortable when he stops smiling and starts being frank. “I’m twenty-nine. I’m already a lot older than many of the students here. Pair that with my – how do they put it – ‘unconventional’ background, and that’s over two decades of training to catch up on. Now, I have no aversion to hard work. I like to have fun with it but I’ll do the fucking work, Nicky.”

Joe expects Nicky to pull a face at that, disbelieving, but he only nods. When he speaks, his voice is soft. “So what don’t you like?”

“Condescension,” Joe says, because that’s the easiest concept to get across, as a starter. “The unspoken politics. People shitting on the way I play just because I reached it through a different pathway to them – especially when the difference is a shit tonne of money. My family were – but then –” Joe cuts himself off, breath high in his throat. Nicky has been listening to him so intently his mouth had rushed to fill the silence, and he has to pull himself back. Just yesterday, they’d been at each other’s throats. There’s no reason to think Nicky had changed over night just because he’s listening now. “I just mean – being both narrow minded and sanctimonious about it really rubs me the wrong way, you know?”

“I…think so,” Nicky says. He doesn’t sound convincing, but his face is thoughtful.

“Like, some traditions are just ridiculous,” Joe says. “And then people treat you like a heretic if you haven’t grown up with them.”

“There’s a reason –” Nicky starts, but Joe shakes his head.

“Some traditions make sense,” he says, “but some are just unnecessary, except to keep people out. You must realise that.”

Nicky is silent then, but his expression is less blank than usual. Joe drums his fingers on the table and adds, “I’m sorry for yelling.” If they’re doing this maturity thing, he isn’t about to be outdone. And he’s never proud of yelling. “And for pushing you. I just. I just need _something_ , when we’re playing; I need to be clearer on what you’re thinking and feeling, you know? I can adjust if we can find a balance –”

“I agree,” Nicky says. It’s the second time he’s short-circuited Joe’s brain in surprise. “And I’m sorry for being…how did you put it?”

“An asshole?” Joe says, smirking, and Nicky rolls his eyes.

“At least that’s succinct,” he says. “You’re usually so long-winded.”

“What can I say, I’m a poet,” Joe says, and Nicky scoffs. They pause as the barista delivers their coffees, and Joe sneaks a glance at Nicky over the rim of his cup, only to find Nicky looking right back at him. The air is tentative between them, like a string that’s been pulled taut and plucked.

“I still fucking hate your double-stopping technique,” Nicky says finally, and Joe laughs, full-bodied. 

“I’ll take that one,” he says, and Nicky smiles at him - a brief, split-second thing - and Joe thinks _ah, fuck._

~*~

 ** _From: josephbroseph,_** **_yesterday at 11:43pm_**

OH AND ANOTHER THING

**_From: d’Nile, yesterday at 11:45pm_ **

Jfc Joe I haven’t even finished reading your afternoon messages. Are you ok

**_From: josephbroseph, yesterday at 11:45pm_ **

Sorry. Also NO I’M NOT

**_From: d’Nile, yesterday at 11:46pm_ **

Ah well, you know I love it when you roast elitists

**_From: josephbroseph, yesterday at 11:47pm_ **

It’s not just that though?? Or maybe it is, idek anymore. But every time he speaks I just hear ‘punch me’

Honestly when he told me off for ‘wasting my opportunity’ I fuckin could have

**_From: d’Nile, yesterday at 11:48pm_ **

Big yikes. Does he know about all the other shit you do?

**_From: josephbroseph, yesterday at 11:50pm_ **

I guess not. But doubt he would care or understand. He’s defs younger than me but probs still calls google ‘The Google’

Also he’s one of those one-trick ponies. Would marry a piano if he could

**_From: d’Nile, yesterday at 11:51pm_ **

I feel that. We’re surrounded by them.

Like I get the dedication but it can get a bit much

**_From: josephbroseph, yesterday at 11:52pm_ **

Yeah like look he’s actually very good. I won’t tell him though because everyone is already licking his boots constantly

**_From: d’Nile, yesterday at 11:54pm_ **

| _josephbroseph at 5:13pm:_ “he’s got a silver spoon so far up his ass it waves to me every time he opens his goddamn mouth” |

The imagery. This rant is stellar

**_From: josephbroseph, yesterday at 11:55pm_ **

Glad my pain entertains you

Srsly though I have done retail for celebrities who have made me less mad

**_From: d’Nile, yesterday at 11:56pm_ **

HA that’s the real insult. Hey tell me more about it tomorrow, I gotta sleep. You should too

**_From: josephbroseph, yesterday at 11:59pm_ **

Can’t, laptop crashed again & I lost 3 hrs of editing :( Gotta redo for upload tmr

**_From: d’Nile, yesterday at 11:59pm_ **

Noooo!! We need to get you a new laptop. Probably after a new violin case though XD

**_From: josephbroseph, today at 12:34am_ **

stfu my case is an icon

**_From: josephbroseph, today at 1:12am_ **

Honestly though I don’t get why people are so obsessed with him. He’s good but he’s dick

*a dick

He’s not even that good looking

**_From: josephbroseph, today at 2:45am_ **

Unless you’re into that basic European white boy aesthetic

**_From: josephbroseph, today at 3:02am_ **

I mean

**_From: josephbroseph, today at 4:26am_ **

I MEAN

I still hate him

**_From: d’Nile, today at 12:04 pm_ **

HAHA I have this on record now

Also FUCK I just realised I forgot my meal prep & no time to get something on plan, Andy will kill me

**_From: josephbroseph, today at 12:05 pm_ **

Say no more, I’m coming in now I’ll pick something up. Where you at?

~*~

October blurs into November, blusteringly chilly, and their early December recital date looms ever closer. After their Nile-induced chat, however, a strange ground seems to have formed under them. Nicky still eyes him when Joe changes his phrasing on the fly, and Joe doesn’t stop digging at Nicky’s demeanour, but they’re not constantly snapping at every reaction. Instead, it’s taken a weirdly constructive turn. Joe won’t admit it, but Nicky actually has some useful things to say. He’s just so deadpan it comes across rather coldly, or like he’s stating a prophecy about how shit you are.

“Did your teachers ever say anything nice to you?” Joe asks one day after Nicky makes them run the same passage over twenty-nine times, and doesn’t even comment when they finally get it right. Nicky tilts his head, apparently thinking, and the silence stretches so long Joe laughs.

“Oh, Nicky,” he says, and Nicky scowls at him. “That’s so sad. And unsurprising.”

“I suppose your teachers praised you endlessly,” Nicky says.

“Well I’m wasn’t going to just tell myself how shit I was,” Joe says. “That’s not helpful.”

Nicky still looks hilariously confused whenever Joe references being self-taught, but it’s more curiosity now than concern. He just says, “I suppose Julliard has been a steep learning curve, then,” which Joe will take as a win.

“It’s not so bad,” he says, and then throws Nicky a wink. “People respond well to my charming personality.”

Nicky _does_ make a face at that, and Joe laughs. It’s stopped feeling like Nicky’s fighting him when they play, both of them pushing and pulling for control. He still plays in his distinctive Nicky way; Joe still feels like himself. But they’re having longer and longer stretches of that wordless connection Joe’s been looking for since that first time. He thinks it’s giving Nicky enough confidence to relax a little. Joe has added several new Nicky expressions to his collection, and is working diligently on identifying more. He tries to imagine Nicky’s face if he started vlogging in front of him, and has to turn his laugh into a cough in the middle of class. Maybe that’ll be his next milestone.

~*~

They still need to talk – for one, Nicky remains unsure how to articulate what exactly he wanted to apologise for, only that he wants to – but despite Joe’s outburst, he seems to have moved on with a smile, which Nicky is both grateful for and envious of. He avoids getting too invested in things precisely because if they upset him, they stay with him, festering away in the background. 

They have more run-ins with Nile, and they all go for lunch one day to make up for their first meeting. Neither of them will tell Nicky what Joe has said about him to Nile, but it seems more amusing than hurtful now. Nile says none of it was ‘undeserved’, which Nicky accepts. He’s learnt a lot from his short friendship with Nile and he’s starting to with Joe, despite their quirks and conflicts.

One thing that he still cannot accept is Joe’s constant tardiness. Nicky is someone who has been early for every single appointment in his life, and plans his schedule accordingly. Joe, evidently, is not. It’s a sore point that often reduces them into their original patterns. This time though –

“Your pitch is off there,” Nicky says, stopping right in the middle of the arpeggios for maximum annoyance. It seems to work, because Joe sounds like he’s gritting his teeth when he says without turning around,

“No it’s not.”

“Yes it is.”

“Definitely not.”

“Definitely is. Or maybe you didn’t tune properly when we started because you were _late again_.”

Joe turns to look at him then, and his face is twisted in a way it shouldn’t be. With anyone else, Nicky would maybe back off with a look like that, but it’s Joe, and he never seems to be able to quit with Joe.

“I apologised for that,” Joe says, like he’s choosing his words very carefully. “Can you please get off my ass about it?”

“I will when you consistently show up on time for rehearsals,” Nicky says, graciously ignoring the ‘ass’ idiom.

Joe’s fingers curl tight around his bow, and he readjusts his grip, still staring at Nicky.

“Look,” he says. “I have a lot going on right now –”

“Don’t we all,” Nicky says. “Everyone’s time is precious, Joe. It’s a sign of respect to show up on time –”

“You think I’m doing this _on purpose_ to – to disrespect you?” Joe asks, gesturing with his bow hand. He’s lucky no one else is around, or else he’d risk taking out an eye. “You and the _respect_ –”

“Yes, _respect_ ,” Nicky says, straightening his back. “You’re not the only person I have to practice with –”

“Oh, right, I’m sorry, I forgot how big and important you were that you aren’t ever going to forgive me being five minutes late –”

“It was fifteen minutes today and it’s not just about this one time –”

“I get it,” Joe grits out, cutting Nicky off. “You and everyone else thinks I’m some disrespectful shit who doesn’t belong here and am too lazy to show up on time. I get it. You don’t have to remind me.”

The bone-tired bitterness in Joe’s tone stumps Nicky, sudden and unexpected. He knows by now that those are not natural emotions for Joe; how foreign anger and derision actually are to Joe’s face. At Nicky’s silence, Joe turns away, placing his violin carefully on the lid of the piano. He goes to wipe his hands on his shirt and Nicky sees then that his fingers are shaking. Joe lets out an annoyed breath and flexes his hands, squeezing them into such tight fists that his knuckles go pale.

“Joe,” Nicky says, quietly. When Joe doesn’t respond, Nicky says again, still soft but more firmly, “Joe, did something happen?”

“No,” Joe says immediately, still staring at his hands. “I was late. I won’t do it again.”

Nicky stands up, and for a horrible second Joe recoils, hands still balled into fists. They stare at each other for a long moment before Joe lets out a slow, measured breath. His hands come to rest against the piano top.

“I…I was late today because I forgot my student ID.” He pauses there, as if expecting Nicky to interject. When Nicky stays silent, he carries on, monotone, like he’s said every word before. “They wouldn’t let me in the building. And the system was down so they couldn’t verify me.”

Nicky stands silent, a prickling sensation growing in his stomach.

“And I knew you’d be mad, so I – I was arguing to get in, and then the guard came along.”

Joe’s voice is quiet again now, and he raises a hand, fingertips brushing over his violin strings. “He…wanted to search my bags. He wanted to open my goddamn violin case.” Joe laughs then; a horrible, flat sound. “You would’ve loved the way he handled it. So much _respect_.”

“They can’t do that –” Nicky starts, but Joe finally looks at him then, and he looks so old all of a sudden that Nicky has to stop.

“They ask what I’m carrying, am I _not_ going to show them?” he asks, and Nicky has no reply. “He nearly broke my fucking case,” Joe continues, shaking his head. “It’s shit enough as it is, I’m sure you’ve noticed.”

Heat crawls up Nicky’s face. Of course he had, that very first day.

“Only reason I wasn’t even _later_ was because Andy happened to be coming in,” Joe says. “But Andy’s not going to be around every time, huh.” He flexes his hands again; in, out, in, out.

“Joe…” Nicky starts, but Joe shrugs, already turning from him.

“Whatever,” he says. “That was today. I’m sorry for being late all the other times. It’s shitty of me and I get it. I’m sorry I wasted your time.”

Nicky surprises himself then by reaching out and putting his hand over Joe’s. The constantly flexing just looks so painful, he wants to –

Joe freezes and looks at Nicky, who doesn’t retract his hand.

“Joe,” Nicky says. “I’m sorry. I didn’t realise that had happened.”

“It’s fine –” Joe starts, pulling back, but Nicky tightens his grip over Joe’s.

“It’s not, and I’m sorry. I shouldn’t have…been so hard on you.”

Joe scoffs. “Seriously, please don’t make the pity play now. Really doesn’t suit you.”

“I’m not,” Nicky says, willing Joe to understand him. “Today shouldn’t have happened and we can deal with that, as you wish. But you’re right, I’ve been…how did you put it. Too _on your ass_ about punctuality. And – other things.”

Joe laughs then, but the sound is slightly less flat.

“You sound ridiculous saying that,” he says, and Nicky rolls his eyes.

“You used it.”

“You chose to repeat it.”

They both pause, and then blurt out at the same time,

“I’m sorry, I’ll be better about rehearsal, really –”

“Did you want to discuss what else –”

They both stop, try to start, and overlap again. Joe shakes his head, and he’s smiling now, small but present.

“Let’s actually use this room before we get kicked out,” he says. “Then –” he checks his phone. “Dinner?”

“Alright,” Nicky says, nodding.

“Can I…have my hand back?” Joe asks, raising his eyebrows.

Nicky looks down before hastily retracting his hand.

“Sorry,” he says, busying himself by sitting back down and adjusting his seat. “Let’s take it from bar 107, shall we? In tune this time, please.”

“Oh, fuck you,” Joe says, but he’s grinning now, and Nicky smiles down at the piano keys as they breathe in together, and restart the piece.

~*~

Mid-November, Nicky checks if Nile wants tickets to his and Joe’s performance. He knows Andy and Booker already have theirs, and it’ll be nice to have them all there. It’ll show them what he’s had to deal with.

“Oh, I already got some,” Nile says from where she’s stretching on the floor. Nicky’s hamstrings are twinging just looking at her. “I knew to get them early. I’m pretty sure you’re sold out by now.”

“What, really?” Nicky asks, perplexed. He’s fortunate that most of his performances are well-attended, and the Julliard student concerts are always popular. But they don’t usually sell out, and certainly not so far in advance. 

“Yeah,” Nile says, folding into another impossible shape. “Obviously you’re popular and all, but I suspect Joe’ll have a lot of fans there.”

“Fans?” Nicky asks, and Nile pins him with a stare from under her outstretched arm.

“Nicky,” she says, “you’re aware Joe has like, close to a million followers on YouTube, right?”

“You know those words mean nothing to me,” Nicky says, and Nile sighs and rolls into an upright position.

“You know how Joe is filming all the time?” she asks.

“Yes,” Nicky says, nodding. “It’s very embarrassing. And narcissistic.”

“Actually, it’s very successful,” Nile says. “And he’s come a really long way with it. And this is basically his first public performance since becoming a Julliard student, so people are excited. It’s really cool, you should check it out.”

“Mm,” Nicky says, non-committal, and Nile laughs and says,

“You’re such an old man, Nicky.”

“Better that than whatever Joe is,” Nicky retorts, but Nile’s expression tells him his Joe-related complaints are becoming less and less convincing by the day.

~*~

One of Nicky’s old Academy friends comes to see his performance with his cellist. Daniel had studied at the same time as Nicky, several years older, and critics have been quick to call him Nicky’s American counterpart. They tend to frequent different continents, so catching up is always a special occasion. Their conversation roams between concert review, tour stories and conservatory nostalgia, and he becomes aware of how different his brain feels, being around someone so similar to him, with such a familiar background. He would have never noticed it before, and it’s unsettling, like having to manually think about walking.

“So the verdict,” Daniel says, tipping his glass at Nicky, “is no to the cello? It’s a shame, but…”

“Unfortunately not the one,” Nicky agrees.

“You’re not trying to find a spouse, Nicolò,” Daniel says, laughing, and Nicky shrugs.

“I assume the pain of searching is sometimes similar,” he says, which makes Daniel laugh harder. “Good tour partners are hard to find.”

“Indeed they are,” Daniel says. “And you just did a solo run, didn’t you?”

“Yes,” Nicky says, “so I’d prefer a collaborative tour before doing that again.” He pauses, running his fingers along the side of his glass. “I still have my last student concert. The violinist.”

Daniel waves a hand. “Oh, I heard. I’m sorry you had to waste your time with that. Copley’s bright idea, was it?”

“Yes.” Nicky frowns. “What do you mean, waste my time?”

Daniel smiles at him, fond and conspiratorial. “You don’t have to play nice around me, Nicky,” he says. “You know what I mean.”

“No sorry, I don’t,” Nicky says, and Daniel tilts his head.

“Well, he’s obviously a charity case,” he says. “Or there to fill some quota. I heard that crazy ballerina, Andromeda or whatever, brought him in. What does she know, anyway?” He pauses to refill Nicky’s wine glass. “Trust me, Nicky. You’re doing a nice thing, but it’s a stunt. He’ll never make it.”

~*~

“I think we should open with Ravel,” Nicky says just before Thanksgiving recess. 

Joe pauses from where he’s applying rosin to his bow and stares at him.

“Nicky,” he says, looking moments away from checking Nicky’s forehead, “are you feeling alright?”

Nicky rolls his eyes in answer.

“Nicky,” Joe says again, slowly. “You _hate_ the Ravel.”

“No, I hate how you play it,” Nicky says, and Joe nods, still looking concerned.

“Exactly,” he says. “You’ve bitched about it from day one. You detest how long the solo section is. You think I overplay literally every note. You hate having to, and I quote, ‘just sit there and listen to me destroy my strings’. So what’s going on here?”

“You keep track of everything I say?” Nicky asks. He doesn’t remember saying those words, and if he’s honest, he doesn’t think he ever meant them.

“Only when you say such sweet things to me,” Joe says, grinning before returning to concern. “Seriously though, why?”

“It’s only logical,” Nicky says. “It’s the perfect opener. Full four minutes to introduce yourself to the audience, before the piano comes in. Enables you to show off a huge range of technical skills, while also being very gripping and dramatic.” He thinks he’s said enough, but then his mouth keeps going. “It’s everything you’re best at.”

Joe’s eyebrows shoot up. Nicky considers smacking his head on the piano lid, but valiantly soldiers on.

“Also, in the first movement of Tchaikovsky, I do think we should take more time here,” he taps the page in front of him, “and here, which will give you more time to draw out the melody in both the lower and upper register, before we hit the frenetic section here.”

Joe moves closer to him to see where Nicky’s pointing, and Nicky can feel the heat of his body, almost touching. Joe hums the section Nicky’s referring to, and then lets out a surprised laugh.

“Nicky,” he says, and he swivels to lean against the edge of the piano, in order to look straight into Nicky’s face. “Is that not a suggestion _I_ had, when we first chose this piece?”

“Firstly,” Nicky says, regretting everything, “we didn’t _choose_ this piece, you just refused not to play it, and secondly, I’m only allowing it now because your ability to play that section is finally adequate.”

“ _Finally adequate_ ,” Joe repeats, still smiling. “My God, Nicky, your way with words. Be still my heart.”

“ _Anyway_ ,” Nicky says, forcefully flipping more pages, “don’t rush the solo section here, I’ll wait. And by the third movement, if you can guarantee that you’re not going to drop your bow, we can pick up the speed.”

“I feel like I should be recording this,” Joe says, shaking his head. “Even if you have lost your mind.”

“I have not,” Nicky says. “You’ve just…improved. To a point where I can trust you to take these liberties.”

Joe still looks unconvinced, and Nicky sighs. Joe never lets him off easy, and it has forced him to say more in the last two months than he can remember saying all year.

“I still don’t agree with some – most of your choices,” he says, and Joe nods like he’s egging him on. “But you’re…you’re good at those choices, and I think we should lean into that. And then I can cover when you get too…” Nicky sniffs, and makes a hand gesture that he hopes conveys the depth of his disdain. Instead, Joe looks more pleased than ever, and then _reaches out as if to squeeze Nicky’s cheek_.

“Aw, Nicky,” he says as Nicky bats his hand away in horror. “I’m so proud of you.”

“Proud of _me_ –” Nicky starts, indignant, but Joe turns serious before they get any further.

“Nicky,” he says again, and Nicky doesn’t think anyone says his name like Joe does, like he’s taking so much care with both syllables. “As happy as I am that the stick is semi-removed from your ass – hey, that’s a compliment, don’t hit me – I have to ask again, what’s going on?”

Joe’s voice is soft, and Nicky’s reminded of their conversation after Joe had been so late, where they’d stood on opposite sides of this exchange. This time, he sees his own concern reflected in Joe’s eyes, and marvels, inexplicably, at the openness there; the knowledge that no matter his words, Joe will _understand_.

“We’ve worked very hard,” Nicky says carefully. “And come a long way in a short amount of time. I will not have anyone tell us we made a bad choice, or wasted our time. And you will get what you deserve, from a performance like this. You will get to show who you are.”

Joe looks at him for a long moment, and the room is so silent it’s as if the very air is holding its breath. Then, a slow smile grows across Joe’s face, and it is so radiant that Nicky never wants to see Joe sad, or angry, or defeated ever again.

“Nicky,” Joe says, eyes shining. “We are going to fucking _kill_ this.”

~*~

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thank you for the wonderful response to this, especially the impassioned comments 😂 I’m so happy to see it working for both feral arts kids and those who may not have had much exposure to classical music before!
> 
> Particular pieces of note in the 2nd movement:  
> 1\. [ Etude Op. 25, No. 11 & No. 12 by Chopin ](https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=GGAnCaIAdYE)\- two of my favourite Etudes from Op. 25, which I can 100% imagine Nicky playing the shit out of as he tries to do some self-reflection 😅 
> 
> As always, all feedback welcome. Has been so interesting hearing all the different opinions 👀


	3. 3rd movement

And then it arrives: Concert Day.

“Joe,” Nicky says, torn between placating and pissed off. “Joe, we are  _ not _ running the entire concerto again. That’s not going to help.”

“We have time! Let’s do the third movement again at least,” Joe says, pacing a manic circle in the green room, violin and bow in one hand. He goes to run his other hand through his curls and then seems to remember that there is significantly less hair to grab onto since his recent haircut. He looks distinctly different to what Nicky is used to; he’d also had his beard trimmed back and tidied, and Nicky is having a hard time not staring. In familiar Joe fashion, however, he has forgone the traditional performance dress code. Instead, he is in dark pants and an opened collared dress shirt, which for some reason is a deep burgundy. He also has his sleeves rolled up, and the whole ensemble feels almost indecent.

Nicky would admonish him more if Joe wasn’t so damn nervous. He’s never been hard to read, but right now his anxiety is rolling off him in waves, and it’s starting to eat at Nicky’s pre-concert headspace. Nicky hadn’t been lying to Copley; accompaniment usually does feel like a nice break, not being the centre of attention. Today, however, there is a buzz under his skin, and the feedback loop between them is so strong Nicky thinks he’d get an electric shock if he touched Joe.

“Joe,” he says in the voice he uses to direct particularly rowdy quintets. “Listen to me.”

“I’m listening, I’m listening,” Joe says, obviously not, until Nicky stands and gestures for him to put his violin down. Joe sighs dramatically but concedes, before crossing his arms and glaring at Nicky.

“I know you’re the pro at this or whatever,” he starts, but Nicky shakes his head.

“I’m used to performing, yes,” he says. “But that does not mean I do not get nervous. Only that I’ve had more practice managing it.”

“I’ve performed before,” Joe mutters, but there’s no fight in his voice. “Just not like this, on a stage like this. It’s so…distant. So clinical.”

“I’ve known nothing else,” Nicky says honestly. A month ago, Joe would have laughed at him for that, but now he only looks at Nicky like he’s waiting for his point. “But I think it’s incredibly intimate, actually. The focus of the audience, hushed in the darkness, waiting to be enraptured by you. You know how hard you’ve worked to be able to hold them in that moment. You have that control. Now it is simply time to enjoy it.”

Joe looks at him, expression thoughtful, until he cracks a smile and says, “Nicky, that was the most weirdly sexual pep talk I’ve ever received, but I kind of dig it. Thanks.”

“It wasn’t –” Nicky says, exasperated, but he’s made Joe laugh now, which is always helpful. Nicky’s very aware of just how taxing recitals are, especially with the way Joe plays, full-bodied and without an ounce of reserve. The main concerto is almost forty minutes straight, and Nicky is quite glad he doesn’t have to be standing up for it. He just needs to make sure Joe doesn’t tire himself out before the audience are even seated.

“What do we do with the time left, then?” Joe asks. Nicky takes a seat by the wall, away from the piano, and Joe joins him, knee jostling up and down.

Instinctively, Nicky puts his hand on Joe’s knee and forces it still, fingers squeezing the kneecap. Joe makes a strange noise in his throat, but at least he stops fidgeting.

“You find what works for you,” Nicky says, noticing lint on Joe’s dress pants and brushing it off, before smoothing out a crease. Joe has gone very still, which Nicky takes as a win. “I…meditate, to some degree. There is a point where it’s not helpful for me to keep practicing, or to keep thinking about the technicalities. I have done everything I can. It is now out of my hands.”

“ _ Que sera, sera _ ?” Joe says, his breath tickling Nicky’s cheek.

“Exactly,” Nicky says, and Joe turns to look at him. He is close enough for Nicky to see the warmth in his eyes; the laugh lines creasing around them. Nicky keeps his gaze and breaths in, very slowly. He feels Joe match him. They breathe together in the silence of the green room until Nicky can see some of the tension leave Joe’s face.

The stage manager arrives then, and Nicky belatedly takes his hand off Joe’s knee.

“Ready, gentlemen?” she asks, smiling, and Joe smiles back at her, standing up. If Nicky hadn’t just been in the room with him, he wouldn’t have been able to tell he was nervous at all. They follow her down the narrow hallway before entering the wings, dark and hushed. Slivers of golden light filter through the stage doors’ edges, glinting off Joe’s violin, tucked under his arm. Nicky runs his eyes over Joe’s outline, and wonders if they’re feeling the same way. He loves the wings of any concert hall; has since he was a child. It’s a sacred, liminal space; the gateway to the infinite possibilities about to unfold on stage. When he’s alone the darkness folds around him, comforting, before releasing him into the light. When he’s with others it joins them, blessing what they’re about to do together.

He moves to stand beside Joe, one hand brushing Joe’s back. Joe starts and then smiles at him, face just visible in the dim light.

“Okay?” Nicky asks, like they’re sharing a secret.

“Yeah,” Joe says, and reaches out to flick at Nicky’s bowtie. “You look good, by the way. Penguin suit and all.”

“Wish I could say the same for you,” Nicky says and Joe laughs, very softly. They can both hear the audience, mere metres away from them, a mass of chatter and movement.

“They’re louder than I expected,” Joe says, and Nicky squeezes his shoulder.

“They’re excited to see you.”

“God, you’re so much nicer backstage,” Joe says. “Can’t I have this Nicky all the time?”

“You wish,” Nicky replies, huffing out a laugh.

“Nicky, I –” Joe starts, just as the stage manager reappears and signals to them.

“Joe, what –” Nicky says, in case it’s important, and Joe grabs his arm, leaning in so close his lips are almost against Nicky’s ear and says, rushed and rough, “ _ Thank you _ , Nicky,” before the doors are opening and the light spills over them, welcoming them on stage.

From one step to the next, Joe transforms the same way he had when Nicky had first seen him play; his back straightens and his chin goes up, and he’s smiling at the audience like they’re all old friends. Nicky doesn’t need to look at them to feel the familiar weight of expectation, settling over them. Instead, he focuses on the Steinway waiting for him, a shining anchor point amidst the warmth of the stage lights.

He sits, adjusting the seat, his jacket, his cuffs, running an eye over his sheet music. Joe takes his place in front of him, angled so they can see each other out of the corners of their eyes. Nicky wishes, just for a moment, that Joe could still stand in the curve of the piano, facing him and not the audience. Joe nods, and Nicky gives him the A minor chord to tune to. He knows once Joe’s ready, he should turn back and face the keys, letting Joe begin  _ Tzigane _ , as agreed. However, he remains slightly turned, eyes on Joe’s profile. He wants – he wants to see Joe start; he wants to see the faces of the audience, getting to witness it.

Joe breathes in, head raised as if he’s soaking in the stage lights, and lifts his bow.

They had made the right call – the  [ _ Tzigane _ ](https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=-FzYge-uUCk) is a perfect opener, and there’s barely a hint of Joe’s backstage nerves as he runs through each technical hurdle: every frantic  _ arpeggio _ , finely tuned double-stop and forceful  _ pizzicato  _ run. When the piano joins in, Nicky loses himself in it; feeling, rather than seeing what Joe is doing; feeling the energy rolling off Joe in waves and letting it direct him. He knows Joe must be smiling, in that way that used to drive under Nicky’s skin but now makes utter sense to him, how Joe is unable to hide his emotions when he plays. The  _ Tzigane _ ’s piano part is as wild and as technically difficult as the violin, and there’s triumph singing under Nicky’s fingers as he matches Joe, perfectly balanced in the palm of the stage.

They hit the last note together and the audience bursts into applause, warm and welcoming. Joe throws Nicky a grin, adjusting his shoulder rest, and they prepare themselves for the [Tchaikovsky](https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=cbJZeNlrYKg).

They’re on the home stretch of the 3 rd movement, a blur of synchronicity and movement, when the unthinkable happens – Joe’s E string snaps.

Nicky hears the  _ snap _ in his periphery, but doesn’t really register what has happened until Joe’s tone changes in timbre, and Nicky realises he’s transposing everything onto the A string, on the fly. Nicky would be impressed if his brain wasn’t suddenly consumed with  _ cazzo cazzo cazzo, does he want me to stop – _

Joe completes his phrase and takes three rapid steps to the piano; bow down, spare string out of his pocket and hands loosening the peg before he’s even fully facing Nicky. By some miracle, the string has snapped just before a brief reprieve for the violin, where the piano plays the orchestral response to the violin’s melody. But it’s only several bars long - nowhere near long enough,  _ surely _ . Nicky’s never been more thankful for muscle memory as he takes his eyes off his score and stares at Joe.

Joe’s face is perfectly calm, amused even, as he threads the new string through with steady fingers. He makes eye contact with Nicky and  _ grins _ , a clear indication to keep going even as Nicky runs out of bars. Nicky does the only thing he can think of and improvises, looping back around with an extra line of melody to hide the repeat, as Joe tightens the new string, tunes it and hits his new cue in one fluid movement, three steps back to his original position.

Nicky can feel the disbelief from the audience, can hear them, but they have a concerto to finish and to finish  _ well _ . He trusts his memory and forgoes the score, turning his head towards Joe to signal  _ I’m here, you’re okay, we’ve got this.  _ Joe is angled towards him as well, breathing in sync even as the tempo picks up and they thunder towards the finish line. Nicky throws himself into the last several bars – there’s no other way to play them, really – and Joe’s right beside him, in every exchange. They both finish with a single flourish, arms outstretched, both grinning and panting and yes,  _ yes – _

The audience are on their feet before the final notes have stopped reverberating. People are clapping, cheering and stamping, and Nicky looks out at them, unable to see most of their faces clearly but knowing they are all thinking and feeling the same thing. Joe looks back at him, violin lowering, and Nicky inclines his head towards stage front. Joe turns forward and takes a bow, and then, when the applause does not diminish, a second. When he straightens, he turns to Nicky again. Usually, Nicky would simply give a nod from where he’s sitting, but Joe is gesturing at him madly, so he rolls his eyes and stands. Joe grabs his hand and pulls him forward, until they’re standing side by side, and they both bow, in sync and in time, as the audience crescendos into an almighty wall of noise. Joe leans in, still clutching his hand and shouts “ _ Shit _ we’re good!” into Nicky’s ear, and all Nicky can do is smile back at him, more helpless and happier than he can ever remember feeling.

~*~

“Oh my  _ God _ , Nicky!”

Nile is barrelling towards him, resplendent in her evening dress. She’s clutching the customary post-performance bouquet, which she thrusts at him and promptly crushes by pulling him into a tight hug. “That. Was. Amazing.”

“It was very lucky,” Nicky says, smiling at her and trying to save the flowers. “It doesn’t usually go like that.”

“No, I mean, yes, that string change was  _ insane _ ,” she says, “but everything else was –” she mimes a chef’s kiss in front of her face, and Nicky laughs.

“Thank you, Nile,” he says. “I’m very happy you could all attend.”

“Oh, wouldn’t have missed it for the world,” Nile says. “Hey, look, once you’re both done schmoozing, Booker’s inviting us back to the bar. He wants to meet this Joe of yours.”

“He’s not –” Nicky starts, but then the piano faculty descend upon him, and he has to contend with post-performance chatter. When he finally extricates himself, he finds Joe saying goodbye to his classmates, who have gotten him a bouquet of his own, which goes well with his unorthodox shirt.

“Hey,” Nicky says, and Joe turns to him immediately, smiling.

“Hey, yourself,” he says, nonsensical. “That was...”

His mouth works, but nothing comes out until he gives up with a laugh.

“A very interesting first recital experience for you?” Nicky suggests, and Joe shakes his head, laughing harder.

“Yes, Nicky,” he says. “That’s exactly what I was going to say.”

“Well, you’re very easy to read,” Nicky says, blasé. “Hey, if you didn’t have other plans, a friend of mine is inviting us to his bar. He wants to meet you.”

“Oh my.” Joe puts a dramatic hand on his chest. “ _ Moi? _ ”

“Whatever this post-performance reaction is,” Nicky says, “I don’t like it.”

“You love it,” Joe says, punching Nicky on the shoulder. “Let me just grab my stuff…”

Booker greets them at the bar, pulling them into a secluded corner of the outdoor rooftop. Everyone bitches at him, because it’s December and it’s  _ cold _ , goddamit, but he turns up the heaters and brings out enough alcohol to distract them. It’s a beautifully clear night, and the city stretches all around them, bright and vibrant.

“This place is  _ amazing _ ,” Joe says to Booker after they’ve been introduced, and Booker lights up and brings Joe over to the railing, showing him the view. 

“We may have created a monster,” Nile says solemnly next to Nicky, as they watch Joe laugh at something Booker’s muttering in his ear, almost dropping his phone from where he’s taking panoramas.

“That’s on you,” Nicky says, sipping his wine. It’s always interesting when people he knows from different circles meet. He’d never expected Joe to be one of those cases, but then again, there are a great many things he’d never expected about Joe. He thinks back to them, mere hours before, breathing together in the green room, touching in the wings, and there’s a glow to those memories, which he blames on the post-performance high settling through him, as warm as the alcohol. The worst is to feel nothing after a performance, so Nicky allows him to luxuriate in the emotions running through him, the buzz from the day mellowing under his skin. Tomorrow, maybe later, he will sit down and dissect their performance. Right now, everything is fuzzy and golden at the edges, fatigue mixing with triumph.

He’s gotten used to performances ending in meet-and-greets and sponsorship events, before taking refuge in his hotel room, alone. He’s forgotten how nice this alternative is, surrounded only by his favourite people in the world, and Joe, he supposes. He takes a seat next to the heater and watches as Nile joins Joe and Booker, Joe picking her up in a hug that makes her shriek with laughter. Unsurprisingly, Joe’s post-performance high seems to manifest as manic energy, despite the exertion he’d just been through. It should annoy Nicky, the noise of it; instead, it just makes him smile into his glass.

Andy materialises next to him and they both sit in silence for a while, watching their little corner of the world. Joe is making a  _ come at me _ gesture at Booker, who is laughing raucously, drink forgotten on the table, while Nile pretends to referee.

“I’ve never seen you have so much fun,” Andy says softly, just for Nicky to hear. “And the performance was beautiful. Nobody can fault you.”

Nicky turns to her, searching, and finds Andy looking at him with such an unfathomable expression that he reaches out and takes her hand. She smiles at him in a way he knows he’s privileged to see. Andy has always been ageless to Nicky, ever since he was fifteen and she had found him asleep in one of the practice rooms. Her eyes hold an infinite wisdom that Nicky has never found the bottom of, and no matter how many tutors or critics he has, he always comes back to Andy, solid and sure.

“Really?” he asks, feeling fifteen again.

“Really,” she says. “I have not seen something like that in a long time.” The weight of her words settle, deep in his chest. She’s never had to say much to get him to understand. “Don’t waste it, Nicky,” she says, and her smile is bittersweet.

“I won’t,” Nicky says, because they never lie to each other, and his words feel like an oath, heavy in the air between them.

~*~

**_From: Truly, The Worst_ ** **at 7:10am**

Hi Joe. Are you free today at 12pm – our usual room? 

Joe stares at the text from where he’s curled up on his desk chair, distractedly video editing. It’s so cold his fingers are slow on the keyboard, and he’s tightly cocooned in his blankets. The last thing he wants to do is go outside – and yet…

If he’s honest, he didn’t think he would hear from Nicky again. He’d known from the beginning it had been Copley’s idea, not Nicky’s, and it had been implied to him enough that it was a stunt; adding a little  _ diversity _ to Nicky’s student collaborations. He’d heard enough of that bullshit to let it slide, somewhat, and he thought he’d accepted the possibility that Nicky would never speak to him again.

But Nicky, on the night of their performance: the one who had talked him through his mess of nerves, calm and kind; who had breathed with him in the green room, one hand warm on his knee; stood next to him in the wings like they were about to go into battle together… Joe wants to see that Nicky again. He wants the Nicky he’d had on stage with him, the two of them as well-matched as twin blades. He remembers Nicky’s face as he’d changed his broken string, improvising for him without a second thought. Performance headspace enables a crazy level of calm, Joe knows, to keep any show going. But the synchronicity they’d had, what they’d  _ created together _ – when they’d brought the entire hall to their feet, Nicky had smiled at him,  _ really _ smiled, and Joe had thought, wild and ecstatic,  _ we could do anything. _

And then – Nicky had arranged for a debrief. Joe supposes he should have expected it; Nicky probably had a thousand criticisms to leave him with. Instead, Nicky had simply asked for Joe’s assessment and let him ramble over coffee, listening intently as Joe ran through each moment. When Joe had finally run out of words, Nicky had nodded and smiled, looking oddly satisfied.

By that point, it was early evening, and Joe had convinced Nicky to give his thoughts over dinner. It hadn’t taken a lot of convincing, really. Nicky was quiet, but by God did he have opinions. Joe had watched him talk, getting more animated with every comment, until Nicky realised Joe was pilfering his fries, which only made him more animated. Whenever Nicky relaxes enough to speak in paragraphs, Joe glimpses his immense experience, much of which extends beyond the piano keyboard. He gives Joe notes that reminds him just how many world-class violinists Nicky has worked with, and then raises considerations of acoustics, audience and performance etiquette that Joe would’ve never thought of. They don’t agree on everything – will they ever? – but it also doesn’t dissolve into a food fight, which Joe thinks is commendable.

When they part ways, five minutes before closing time, Nicky actually shakes his hand, and Joe thinks  _ okay, this time is goodbye _ . He’d watched Nicky get into an Uber, and given him a salute when Nicky had waved.  _ This time.  _

But now, here Joe is, reading Nicky’s text over like it’ll make any more sense. When it doesn’t, he fires back a  _ yeah, sure! _ , before wondering how the hell he now had a ‘usual room’ with Nicolò fucking Genovese.

When he arrives – right at noon, thank you very much – he can hear the muffled sound of Nicky playing inside. He pauses at the door, listening, and then laughs when he realises it’s the mirror opposite of how they first met. Nicky must have stood where he was and heard him playing Paganini upside down. He hadn’t recognised Nicky then, even the right way up, but his shocked expression remains one of Joe’s favourite memories. It feels like a lifetime ago, almost three months now. Joe’s brain tries to tally just how much time they’ve spent together, crammed into various practice rooms. They’ve spent countless hours playing and fighting and learning to work together until they’d produced a performance Joe is unsure if he’ll ever experience again.

Joe almost doesn’t want to go in. But he also doesn’t want the last time they see each other to be Nicky nagging him about being late, so he exhales and pushes the door open. Nicky looks up, stopping immediately. He’s in his non-performance clothes, which always makes him look like a lost middle-aged dad. Joe is sad he didn’t get to extend his influence in that domain.

“Joe,” Nicky says, and then clears his throat, standing. He shoves his hands in his pockets, which Joe has never seen him do, and tries again. “How are you – how are you doing?”

“…Good…?” Joe says, eyeing him as he shuts the door. “Everything okay, Nicky?”

“Everything’s great,” Nicky says, and his face does a weird thing where his mouth tries to smile but his eyes remain very worried. Joe has definitely spent way too much time in close quarters with Nicky if he’s able to discern  _ that. _

“Okay…” he says, staring. Nicky straightens, clearing his throat again, and then says hurriedly,

“Igotyousomething.”

“Excuse me?” Joe asks, and Nicky comes out from behind the piano and points to something on the floor.

“I…” he says, a flush starting in his cheeks and growing redder with every second, “I got you something.”

Joe had been so focused on him he had not noticed the object sitting at the foot of the piano, somewhat poorly wrapped in gold paper. It’s a sizeable package, and Joe stares at it, dumbfounded.

“You got me something?” he asks, wondering if this was yet another classical performance custom he didn’t know about. Was he supposed to have gotten Nicky something too? Shit, Nicky was going to think he was so rude –

“You might not like it!” Nicky says, and he sounds so defensive that Joe laughs and walks towards him, putting a hand on Nicky’s arm.

“Aw, Nicky,” he says, and Nicky bats at him, half-hearted. Even his neck is flushed. Joe wonders how he manages to hide it during performances. “I’m sure it’s great. Was I meant to get you something?”

“Hm? Oh, no,” Nicky says, “nothing like that. I just thought you might like this. Is all.”

“Alright.” Curious now, Joe crouches down to examine the gift. “Can I open it on the piano?”

Nicky sighs, sounding much more like himself, and Joe grins up at him.

“I suppose,” Nicky says, and Joe carefully transfers the package onto the piano. It’s lighter than he expects, considering how solid it is. He rips at the wrapping paper, which makes Nicky  _ tsk _ at him.

“What?” Joe says, balling some up and lobbing it at him. “That’s half the fun of presents.”

Nicky mutters something that sounds suspiciously like  _ told Nile wrapping was a waste of time _ , but by then Joe has unveiled the gift, and he – he can’t do much except stare at it, wordless.

It’s a violin case. It’s beautifully designed: sleekly compact and burnished with a subtle pattern to break up the dark silver. Joe runs the back of his hand over it, perfectly smooth, before knocking on it with a knuckle, solid and sturdy. There’s a combination lock hidden behind the leather handles. It’s the kind of case Joe would love to have if he had a casual couple of hundred lying around; as it is, his current case is stuck together with superglue and prayers.

“I thought you might prefer something other than just plain black,” Nicky says, coming to stand beside him. He reaches out and runs his hands along the edges. “It’s designed to seal when you close it, so it’s actually weather resistant and maintains temperature.” He gestures to the lid and adds, “It also has proper suspension while being quite lightweight. Really good for travelling.” He angles the case so Joe can see the bottom. “You can also attach straps here to carry it on your back.” He sits the case down again, staring at it. “Might make all your filming a little easier.”

Nicky might as well have clobbered Joe over the head with the damn thing. Joe stares at the case, and then at Nicky, who’s looking increasingly uncomfortable with the silence. 

“Do you…” Nicky says, face scrunching a little, “do you like it?”

“Nicky,” Joe says, sounding a little strangled to his own ears, “Nicky, what the fuck –”

“You don’t like it,” Nicky says, stepping back and running a hand through his hair, making it stick up. “Okay, that’s fine, I have the receipt –”

“No,  _ Nicky _ ,” Joe says, catching his arm. “I – shit, of course I like it, Nicky, it’s beautiful –”

“And functional,” Nicky interjects, because apparently even mortal embarrassment won’t stop him from correcting Joe. “I thought a lot about function.”

“Evidently,” Joe says. “But it’s – it’s too much, Nicky. I can’t just accept it.”

“Sure you can,” Nicky says, as if he’d prepared for this response. “It might come in handier than you’d expect.”

“What do you mean?” Joe asks.

Nicky smiles at him then, sweet and hopeful, and Joe thinks, not for the first time:  _ ah, fuck _ .

“Joe,” Nicky says, “will you come on tour with me?”

~*~

_ End of Opus 1, No. 1 _

~*~

_ I don’t want you to love me because I’m good for you, because I say and do all the right things. Because I am everything you have been looking for. _

_ I want to be the one that you didn’t see coming. The one who gets under your skin. Who makes you unsteady. Who makes you question everything you have ever believed about love. Who makes you feel reckless and out of control. The one you are infuriatingly and inexplicably drawn to. _

_ I don’t want to be the one who tucks you into bed—I want to be the reason why you can’t sleep at night. _

_ The One by Lang Leav _

~*~

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Particular pieces of note in the 3rd movement - Joe’s concert programme, of course!
> 
> 1\. [ Tzigane by Ravel](https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=-FzYge-uUCk) – Joe’s opener. It’s such a ‘wtf, seriously?!’ piece to me both re: technical difficulty and expressive flair, which I think suits Joe well, as Nicky realised last chapter ;) I think it’s great to watch this piece visually as well, just to see how wild it is to play, so I’ve linked to a live performance that I quite enjoy.  
> 2\. [ Violin Concerto in D major, Op. 35 by Tchaikovsky](https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=cbJZeNlrYKg) – the big ‘un of the concert, performed here by Joshua Bell. This recording is a good visual demonstration of just how taxing this concerto is to play! Re: That String Snap, if you jump to 33:50 in the 3rd mvt (for that sweet sweet build-up) and then imagine the string snap around 35:02 - with Nicky looping the accompaniment section just after that point (plus some authorial magic 😂) I imagine Joe could make it. Just. And then that ending! 
> 
> So when I first started this last year, I thought the _entire thing_ would be done in 10k. And then it snowballed and frankly the word count prediction freaked me out. Hence, when it came to posting this year, I decided to separate out the arcs. So, if you’re happy with where they’ve gotten to here - thank you very much for reading 💕 If, however, you’d like to see where these lads go from here, then please subscribe to the series itself and Opus 2, No. 2 will begin posting shortly!
> 
> As always, all feedback welcome. Thank you to everyone for all the love and heartfelt responses 🥰
> 
> Update 11 March 2021: Now with some amazing transformative works!  
> \- [Music AU Moodboard by polar](https://alaskandawn.tumblr.com/post/642331050342842368/it-is-finally-here-incredibly-talented#notes)  
> \- [Violinist Joe manip by heelipabo](https://heelipabo.tumblr.com/post/645197905323540480/violinistjoe)  
> \- [Pianist Nicky manip by heelipabo ](https://heelipabo.tumblr.com/post/645121326832664576/pianistnicky)(which they actually made just prior to finding this fic, and have kindly let me attach to because that's ~destiny baby, and also they must always come as a matched pair, must they not? 😂


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